


The Thucydides Project

by Orsino



Category: Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles
Genre: Drama, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:12:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orsino/pseuds/Orsino





	1. Chapter 1

**The Thucydides Project**

by ORSINO

Author's Note. When Arthur Conan Doyle threw Sherlock Holmes over the Reichenbach Falls it was supposedly because he was tired of the character. When I finished Reveries and Requiems with the goal of painting myself into a narrative corner, I was far from tired of the TSCC characters. I had reluctantly concluded, however, that unless I achieved some measure of closure I would never be able to move on to other projects. Unfortunately for those who might believe that I should have stayed in that corner, I found a way out that I could not resist. So here I am again.

For those who are unfamiliar with my work, I suggest reading at least Reveries and Requiems to establish context.

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 **PROLOGUE**

The late afternoon sun, glowing with that special golden aura of the passing day, set the top of the eastern ridge alight. The mountain aspens signaled the approach of Autumn by shedding red and yellow leaves that danced and swirled in the breezes rising up from an ocean still far to the west. In the gentle blend of light and air the man and woman crossed the ridge.

They walked with the comfortable loping assurance of experienced hikers, indifferent to the weight of their back packs. They stopped only briefly, taking a quiet moment to relish the view to the west, toward the coast and home. As they resumed their trek, an errant burst of wind suddenly stirred a pile of fallen leaves into a cloud of debris that seemed to target her directly. Before it raced past them it filled her brown hair with a multi-colored crown of red, yellow, green, and brown leaves as well as a few random twigs. The man who had shielded his eyes with his forearm looked at her and broke into laughter.

She was not angry but neither was she particularly amused. His sense of humor had always been less sophisticated than hers. She laughed at subtle word play and the timely application of well-polished irony. He laughed at pies in the face and pratfalls caused by discarded banana peels.

"I really don't see what is so funny." He reached over to pluck leaves and a dried twig out of her hair.

"You need to see it from my perspective." He was still chuckling as he spread his fingers to run them slowly and lovingly down the long expanse of her hair until they reached the base of her neck. "You look like you are auditioning for the role of the lost forest elf."

"You shouldn't make fun of me that way" Her voice had a slight quiver. "I think you are being cruel." She turned away from him pulling her hair out of his grasp as she took a quick step toward the east. He could see her shoulders tremble slightly as if she were crying. _Oh surely not_ , he thought. A little teasing couldn't have upset her that much. But she looked so small, so vulnerable.

For so much of their life together she had been a powerful force at his side. It was easy to forget that her greatest strength now rested in her single-minded devotion to him not in her physical prowess. And he had hurt her feelings.

"Cameron, I'm sorry." He reached out to put his hand on her shoulder but before he could touch her she spun back to face him. The grin stretched from ear to ear and her eyes danced in the sunlight.

"Every time, John. You fall for it every time."

He had fallen for it. He suspected that he always would. The First Soldier of the Resistance and she could still play him with all the skill of a piano virtuoso at her favorite key board. The surprising thing was that it never bothered him; he never once resented being the object of her subtle humor. But perhaps it wasn't surprising at all. If that was the only price she charged for sharing her existence with him then he regarded it as a bargain beyond measure. Still there was a ritual response that she expected-the look of defeated embarrassment swiftly replaced by an expression of affectionate surrender. He played his part and claimed the soft kiss that was always his reward.

"I am so glad you are always on my side, Cameron."

"Always" she replied.

He turned now and studied the western horizon with practiced eye of a soldier. It was late afternoon but they still had time to cover another chunk of ground before dark. They could shorten the remaining distance to their ultimate destination—home. The rough and curving trail down the ridge demanded close attention although it did not slow them dramatically. The late day shadows were lengthening but the sun still held its place in the sky as they reached the pine grove on the valley floor.

Cameron quickened her pace, almost bouncing in anticipation as she walked past him. They had come this way on the eastward leg of their journey. This small clearing with its jewel-like pond of icy mountain water and natural garden of wildflowers had instantly become one of her favorite places. The pool was fed by a stream that rose first as a hidden spring far back on the high ground before it coursed, twisting and splashing its way down the ridge. In places it split into multiple channels before racing back together and pouring over a jumble of boulders as a shimmering waterfall. In that quiet clearing the pristine liquid gathered until it overflowed and send a small creek on to the west like a living thing seeking a new refuge.

John smiled as she eased off her backpack and knelt to fill her canteen. The sunflowers and violets blooming at the water's edge seemed to take on a unique radiance as Cameron's special place welcomed her back. Feeling the exertions of the day leave him, he stretched out on the ground and thrust his face into the water. He gulped mouthful after mouthful of the refreshing liquid as the dust and perspiration washed away. Sitting back up he also refilled his canteen with this chilled treat before moving over to sit on the grassy surface beside Cameron. They sat together in silence shoulder to shoulder communicating in their own private language as the blend of light and shadow spun a kaleidoscope of color across the pool.

Abruptly John rose to his feet picking up his backpack as he stood looking down at her.

"Well, let's get going."

Cameron looked confused. "Go? Why do we have to go?"

John pointed skyward. "Look Cam. We have at least another hour of daylight. We can cover a lot more distance before dark."

Still seated on the ground Cameron defiantly folded her arms across her chest, glared up at him and set her face in an expression of exasperated determination.

"John Connor. We are not the Army of the Resistance. This is not a forced march. And-I-am-TIRED!"

John squatted down in front of her. Reaching out he gently but firmly took her face between his hands. With a full measure of mock severity he looked he looked directly into her eyes and whispered "Every time Cameron. You fall for it every time."

"Ohhh, you." Cameron put her palms against his shoulders and pushed. At another time, in another universe that simple gesture would have sent him or any other man tumbling, rolling backward propelled by an irresistible force. Today, however, it only caused him to lean back and smile lovingly at her.

Twice in her existence Cameron had been given the unique opportunity to choose her own physical form, to select the limitations and abilities that would govern her life. In one possible future when John Henry was rebuilding the body lost in a temporal jump, she had happily, even joyously, accepted an enhanced neural sensitivity although it exposed her to the previously unknown sensation of pain. To Cameron the opportunity to love the man she cherished without limitation was worth the cost, any cost. It was a decision she had never regretted.

The second opportunity occurred after John Henry succeeded in extracting the human essence of John Connor from his dying body and transferring it to the cyber universe he had created. Again John Henry had offered her a choice. Moving her consciousness to the cyber environment posed no obstacle that would necessarily restrict her physical capabilities. She could retain the same cyborg physical strength she had always possessed. Without hesitation she rejected that option. Her conversation with John Henry had been concise.

"You have given John back the body of a young man?"

"Yes, I have."

"Then please provide me with a form as close to his as possible. I wish to share our new life together as equals."

"If that is what you wish I will do as you request."

She had not regretted this choice either.

John's teasing grin widened but he could never quite master the look of impish mischief that was her specialty. At least he could not manage it while looking at her. He could never fully conceal the adoration in his expression when he was with her. Cameron did not regret that either.

"Come here" he whispered as he grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. Before she could protest or question his intentions, he had led her over to a large flat boulder beside the pool of rippling water. "Sit down and make yourself comfortable"

He lowered her into a raised seated position on the boulder before sliding all the way down to the ground. He tilted his head until it rested against her knee and began to unlace her hiking boots.

"John, what are -?"

"Shhhh" he replied.

Gently, Cinderella in reverse, he eased off her boots. Then, one by one he enclosed her small feet in his hands. Cameron closed her eyes sighing in contentment as he massaged away the aches and stresses accumulated during the long day's hike.

As he looked up at her and felt her fingers caress his hair John knew that he was experiencing one of those precious moments when all the painful memories of another world receded into the void. It became almost impossible to believe that this exquisitely delicate woman at his side had once been a ferocious warrior. Or that when required he had willingly employed the darkest traits of human nature. In moments such as this those days seemed to be no more than a barely remembered nightmare.

"That feels so nice, John. It is so relaxing."

"I know what will be even better." His fingers adroitly rolled down her thick hiking socks and tossed them aside. Rising to his feet, he spun her around and thrust her bare feet into the chilly water.

"Ooooh, that's cold" she giggled as she playfully splashed the water.

"You sit there and rest. I'll set up camp"

"My Hero"

In a different tone from a different voice that casual remark might have sounded like a joke. But John heard no humor in her words. Rather there was a treasure in that simple formulation worth more than he could calculate. He truly was her hero, her only hero. Meriting that distinction had long ago become the abiding challenge of his existence.

In the solitude of that quiet valley the transition from day to night was startlingly abrupt. For one fleeting moment the sun hung fixed on the horizon, the last beams painting a few scattered clouds a pale pink before it all vanished. An inky darkness swept over the sky instantly creating a perfect backdrop for the scattered diamonds posing as stars. The silvery glow of a half moon served as the faint shadow of the departed sun.

John built a small campfire, retrieved a package of freeze dried stew from his pack and blended it with water in a small metal pot. Dinner on the trail was rarely elaborate and he had never claimed to be a chef. When the mixture was bubbling enough to qualify as cooked he filled two mugs and carried one over to Cameron. They sat together sipping John's concoction and watching the twinkling light show in the night sky. Except for a rare whisper they communicated without speaking.

John heard her yawn as she leaned her head over to rest on his shoulder. "Sleepy?"

"A little."

"I will lay out the sleeping bag."

There was a grassy spot near the fire-a little extra cushioning. With a well practiced flip he unrolled the bag, unzipped it and turned to toss another piece of wood on the fire.

In the flickering shadows cast by the fire Cameron removed her shirt and long pants. After carefully arranging them to hang from a low tree branch where the night breezes would restore their freshness, she gingerly picked her way barefoot over to the sleeping bag. Dressed in a thin tee shirt and panties she slipped happily between the folds of comfortably insulated fabric. As she watched, John also stripped to his shorts and slipped in at her side. She welcomed him by spreading her arms and pulling him close.

In those first few moments as their bodies touched, they whispered good night in softly uttered endearments and a long tender embrace. But as their lips met again and again John's motions became more insistent, more intense. He pushed fabric aside and the warmth of his hands sought all the places where her smooth skin called out to him.

Suddenly Cameron leaned back, put her small palms on his chest and shoved him away.

"Not tonight John. I have a headache." With those words hanging in the air, Cameron rolled onto her side facing away from him.

John let her enjoy it for a long moment before he reached over and pulled her back toward him.

"Oh no. No you don't. My darling Cameron, you are allowed one evil joke at my expense per day and you have exhausted your quota."

"I have?"

"You have."

"Thank goodness."

They had been together too long, shared too much for him to miss the boundless merriment in her voice as she rolled back into his arms.

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It took them another two days to reach the cabin. As the terrain became more and more familiar, John gradually slowed their pace, giving them time to savor the pleasure of coming home. Cameron claimed that she could that she could hear the ocean as the sun neared its zenith on the second day. Unsure whether she was serious or just trying to bait him into another joke, John let her assertion go unchallenged. Then a few moments later he heard it as well. A strong west wind carried the growl of waves crashing against the rocks and sand near their cabin. To John it sounded like a clarion call celebrating their return.

John Henry had designed the cabin in part based on one of John's old fantasies-a simple refuge on the edge of the western sea. The only significant structural departure from John's idea had been to create a strikingly dramatic A-shaped glass front. John Henry's taste favored the grand gesture. The unimpaired view of the sea from inside the cabin was even more extravagant than John had imagined. He loved it.

Cameron wrinkled her nose in displeasure as she opened the door. They had been gone for more than a month and the accumulated odors of closed off mustiness were immediately apparent. John somewhat wistfully suggested that they postpone any remedial action until after they had gone swimming. Cameron expressed a distinctly contrary position and her view quickly carried the day.

Doors were swung back, windows raised and the interior of the house opened to the fresh ocean breezes. General John Connor found himself relegated to something disturbingly close to latrine duty filling mop buckets while Cameron wielded a flashing dust rag. John tried to argue that since no one had walked on the floor it couldn't need mopping. Cameron's determined expression cut off that debate in mid-syllable. He went to look for the mop.

The cabin was basically one large room divided into smaller segments by movable screens and a large wooden bookcase that separated the living room from the dining area. At the rear the well equipped kitchen filled one side while their bedroom occupied the other. The only other enclosures were the bathroom with its waterfall shower and garden tub and just off the kitchen- John Henry's never empty larder.

After his…his…was resurrection the right word? At the beginning of his new existence however it was characterized, John Henry had assured him that this world would be as real to him as his previous universe had been. John Henry's promise had proven accurate in almost all respects. The one glaring exception was the perpetual supply of food and drink contained in the never empty larder. Once again John Henry had surrendered to one of his theatrical urges.

The rest of the house exhibited all of the concrete reality and some of the defects of an actual physical world. There was even a small leak in the roof that John had been unable to patch successfully. He had begun to suspect that John Henry had created the minor flaw just to tease him. At times his old Chief of Intelligence could display a dry and slightly tilted sense of humor that rivaled Cameron's.

Perhaps it was a product of the day's exertions or just the soothing contentment of being back under his own roof, of sleeping in his own bed but whatever the cause John slept soundly that night. There were only two entirely welcome interruptions. He awoke to the morning light already shining brightly through the window and Cameron standing beside the bed. Her arms were folded and her face bore an expression of boundless patience. When his eyes opened and he looked up at her she added a quick impish grin.

"About time sleepy head. I thought I was going to have to go on the morning run alone."

Sheepishly, John rolled out of bed. It had, after all, been his idea to begin their day by jogging together on the beach. It was the first time he had ever overslept. Dashing toward the bathroom he called back over his shoulder.

"I'll just be a second. It's your fault anyway"

"My fault? How is it my fault?"

"Well if you hadn't disturbed my rest."

"Perhaps I should not do that anymore. Perhaps I …."

He stuck his head back out the bathroom door. "Forget what I said. It was only a joke."

"That is your quota for the day, John."

John came out of the bathroom. Like her he was dressed in gym shorts, pull-over shirt and running shoes. He grinned at her and held up his hands in a gesture of complete surrender. "Yes, ma'am."

The sound of sand crunching under their feet took on a rhythmic beat as they matched strides. This morning they had chosen to go north and the beach narrowed in that direction. Rocks, sculpted into intricate shapes by the pounding force of breaking surf, lay scattered along the shoreline. The waves splintered and separated as they struck these stone sentinels sending rivulets of sea water across the beach. With a shared sense of physical release they leaped in unison over the streams. As they pressed on the combination of the warmth from a bright morning sun and the pounding exertion of legs straining through the sand gradually left them both glistening with perspiration. By an unspoken assent they slowed to a halt gratefully breathing in the replenishing oxygen.

After allowing for a brief respite John suddenly grinned at her. "Okay. Race you back to the cabin?"

"Fine" Cameron turned her head to look out at the waves forming in the distance artfully concealing a distinctly devious expression. "Loser washes dinner dishes for a week."

"You got it" John answered before shouting "On, two, three, GO."

He expected to hear her shout in protest but not a word came from behind him. He sprinted hard and even the soft slap of her feet on the sand faded away. When he had covered close to a mile and was about to sneak a triumphant glance over his shoulder he heard her footsteps. He had no need to look now. She was gaining on him. Slowly but inexorably she was closing the distance.

His next thought was a revelation. _I think I have been had. I should have known. I can always beat her in sprints and short dashes but she is a dancer. She is running now on an endless supply of self-discipline._

John's mental assessment soon proved accurate. In the next half mile she caught him, ran along side for a few minutes and then grinned at him as she gradually pulled away, She had tied her long brown hair back into a pony tail that bounced, waved and taunted him as she extended her lead further and further.

"I will set out the dishwashing liquid for you."

He stopped. The urge to laugh, long and heartily was irresistible. Minutes passed before he regained enough composure to resume his jog. It was just a jog now, the race was over.

She was sitting on the edge of the porch as he trotted up from the beach.

"I was afraid that you had gotten lost."

"HA…..HA…HA" he responded.

He was about to slip past her on the way to the shower when she looked up at him. Her smile glowed with an angelic innocence. That should have warned him.

"You might want this" she whispered sweetly holding up a glass jar. He took it from her before he saw the label. Wonder Dish Washing Liquid. He mimicked turning the jar over as if preparing to pour it all on her head but she had already hopped away. She clapped her hands in amusement and her laugh, silver made sound, echoed around him.

John shook his head ruefully muttering to himself as he resumed his retreat to the shower. "Evil, evil, evil."

"John?"

"Yes"

"Would you like for me to wash your back?"

"I thought you would never ask."

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There were no clocks or watches in the house. Humanity's obsessive effort to master time by dividing it into artificial intervals and calculating their march to infinity did not interest them. They structured their days by reference to the sun and the tides, by watching the stars and the rising of the moon and by following their own desires. Afternoons began when they chose, not when the metallic hands on a blank dial decreed it.

It was in the afternoon; however they measured it, that they pursued their individual interests. Today John retrieved his tools and announced his intention to work on the hull of the boat. Down near the shoreline on a raised wooden frame he had begun construction of what he maintained would eventually be a sailboat. Remembering pictures of such craft Cameron had concluded that they were unlikely to be sailing soon. John seemed to be enjoying the project so she kept her doubts to herself.

She decided on a more creative enterprise. Changing into her red bikini, tying a silk wrap around her waist, she donned a floppy straw hat and sun glasses before gathering up her paints, easel and a small canvas. Somewhat to her surprise she had discovered an aptitude as well as a feeling of satisfaction in oil painting. From the beginning John had lavishly praised her work. He had already hung two of her landscapes on the cabin wall. On the other hand she suspected that he was probably inclined to be biased.

"I am going to go back up the beach to those rocks" she called out. "I think the shadows will make an interesting study."

"Have fun." He stopped his effort to reshape one of the planks on the hull long enough to watch her go. After she disappeared behind an arcing curve on the beach, he returned to his labors. Someday. He was resolved that someday his creation would sail. Then he and Cameron would feel the wind in their faces as they explored the coast. With a critical eye he evaluated the progress he had made and then ruefully shook his head. He was a soldier and not a shipwright.

Still-someday.

As the hours crept by and he hit his thumb with the hammer, again, he decided that perhaps it was time to stop for the day. He trotted into the house to retrieve a cold beer. Leaning against a support post on the porch, he watched the ocean surface shift from a deep blue to cobalt and then to gold as the sun peeped through a random collection of clouds. The sound of her humming broke his reverie.

The tune was tantalizingly familiar. He could not name it but he knew instantly where he had heard it before. Cameron had used it in her ballet lessons. If he closed his eyes he could clearly see the image-three little girls-Marissa, Allison and Savannah all straining to emulate the elegant movements Cameron had just demonstrated. If he watched the memory too long his throat would tighten and his heart would pound uncontrollably.

She was coming back down the beach; every step she took displayed a perfect example of economy of effort. She was so precise, so measured and yet pulsing with life. No one could ever describe her movements as mechanical.

As he watched she stopped, turned her face to gaze at the horizon and allowed the ebbing waves to splash her ankles. John could sense the exact moment when the impulse seized her. Carefully, she laid down her painting supplies, pulled loose her silk wrap and placed it along with her hat and sun glasses on the dry sand. Then with the unbridled enthusiasm of a child she dashed into the waves and dove full length into the churning water. _It's like watching a mermaid return to the sea,_ John thought.

Once, so many years ago when they both were young the first time, when she still thought of herself only as a cyborg, when she was struggling to understand that she was so much more than just a programmed machine, Cameron had told him that she couldn't swim. She had been wrong. Perhaps her own programming had lied to her. He had personally taught her to swim even though it had remained the only physical activity she had not been able to do gracefully.

Those awkward days belonged to a different time, to a different universe. Watching her propel herself effortlessly through the water, diving below the waves and then surging back to the surface it was hard to believe that she had not been born in the sea. John went back into the cabin and found a luxuriously thick bath towel. She was floating on her back kicking her legs into the air as he walked briskly over to where she had left her supplies. He lowered himself to the sand and waited. She had seen his approach so she spun in the water and paddled toward him. Emerging from the water she vigorously shook her head sending a spray of droplets into the air. John rose even before she reached the dry land. Smiling gently he walked into the last portion of a receding wave and wrapped the towel over her shoulders.

With a well practiced grace she allowed him to pull her close and press the soft fabric against her skin. She rested her head on his shoulder and whispered in a low throaty growl.

"John?"

"Yes Cameron."

"You still have to wash the dishes."

Actually Cameron relented. In the midst of serving his penalty for grossly underestimating her running ability, she joined him in the kitchen, drying and putting away the products of his labor. John tried to accept her help silently, without any visible acknowledgment but a poorly suppressed chuckle soon blossomed into open and mutual laughter.

Some might have characterized their evenings as placid and settled to the point of boredom. Neither of them saw it in that light. They did, after all, inhabit a world with no nightclubs, bars, movies or shows to tempt them. But even beyond that obvious limitation and despite their youthful appearance, they remained what John happily described as "an old married couple." Simply being together provided all the entertainment they required.

That evening John switched on the music. Cameron's taste was far more refined than his and tonight was her turn. He adjusted the digital selection to Chopin. The Etudes were her favorites, and watched her curl onto the couch with her book. Some nights he would stretch out on the couch with her, rest his head in her lap and listen as she read aloud to him.

This evening, however, he had decided to tackle that damned chess problem…AGAIN.

"Mate in nine."

That was what John Henry had said.

"Black to mate in nine." It had been on his last visit. They had played a long game with the same result as usual—John Henry won. Evidently changes in the fundamental nature of existence had not diminished John Henry's playing ability or improved his. Then as John Henry was preparing to leave he had rearranged the pieces into the puzzle mode.

"This should amuse you, John."

 _Right, John_ thought. _Nothing amuses me more than complete frustration._

Visually, this chess set was as familiar as old friend. It appeared in all respects to be the set that John Henry had carried across continentsand oceans, past cities and country sides, through peace and war and peace again. The white king even had that chipped top caused when an artillery barrage vibrated it off the board. Of course it wasn't really that particular collection of chessmen and board. It couldn't be. That set remained prominently displayed in the living room of the house on Connor Point. This reproduction was, however, like all of John Henry's creations perfect in every detail.

 _DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!_ Why couldn't he see it? The solution would start to form and then slide away like a skater on ice. He glared at the board but he did not touch the pieces. That would be cheating. The puzzle had to be solved mentally and he was determined to show John Henry the answer on his next visit. Language could be so inadequate at times. To call the ability to cross boundaries between two different universes by a word as mundane or as trivial as "visit" seemed to diminish the nature of a miracle. Yet that was the word John Henry used. He had employed that term once when talking to Cameron.

He reminded her that he still maintained her cyborg body in that other world.

"John can not but if you wished Cameron, you could return for a visit."

John had been surprised by the extraordinary vehemence of Cameron's response.

"NO! Absolutely not. I do not wish to discuss it again. Not ever!"

They had all three been standing on the cabin porch watching the glow from a fading sunset. Cameron had turned after her outburst and almost run back inside.

"That really seemed to upset her" John said, surprise and bewilderment both audible in his voice.

"Yes." John Henry appeared thoroughly chastened. "I should not have made that suggestion. I should have realized that it would frighten her." "Frighten her? Her? John Henry, Cameron has never been afraid of anything in her life."

"Just one thing, John. The possibility of losing you terrifies her. I could see it in her eyes as soon as I mentioned going back. It tempted her. She would love to see her daughters and her grandchildren again. But the thought, the tiniest possibility that she might return to the other existence and then be unable to get back to you is more than she can bear."

They stood together facing the last embers of the passing sun for close to a minute before John spoke. His voice had thickened as if the muscles and tendons of his neck were tightening making speech a difficult task.

"John Henry, please excuse me for a few moments. I believe that there is someone who needs to be held."

As John vanished through the doorway, John Henry whispered a response audible only to himself.

"I suspect that at this time there are two."

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Memories and concentration, past and present, emotion and logic, John employed them all as he stared at the board. Mate in nine. It just wasn't there. He couldn't find it. Could the whole thing be just an elaborate joke? It would not solve…. and then, THERE IT WAS. He leaped out of his chair and clapped his hands together hard, one time, creating his own burst of celebratory thunder. It was right there, the pawn on the sixth move. Black had to advance one of the weakest pieces on the board. A seemingly wasted and inconsequential move, but three moves later that pawn would block the white king's only escape. "You solved it didn't you?" Cameron's question was not really a question at all. She folded her book closed and laid it aside.

"I knew you would work it out."

The Chopin suddenly sounded triumphant—the music of a most unmilitary composer shouted a cry of victory. John walked over to the couch and lay down resting his head on her lap.

"I wasn't sure" John said. "I didn't if know I could do it."

"You underestimate yourself John. You always have."

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In all the years they had been together in that other existence, Cameron had not slept. Cyborgs did not sleep. They could power down—go into a hibernation state and become a flesh covered statue-but they did not sleep. Cameron had shared his bed, her arms wrapped around him every night. While he slept she had watched him, memorizing every movement, every reaction and listening to his breathing as if it were music.

Now the roles had changed. Now she slept and it had become his turn to watch. Some nights he awoke to study the delicacy of her relaxed features, to softly brush her hair away from her face and to listen as dreams changed the rhythm of her breath. Tonight he opened his eyes and with painstaking care slipped out of bed. She stirred slightly and the sheet fell away from her bare shoulder. John gently replaced it before tip toeing quietly toward the living room. His desk was a massive piece of dark oak formed into the antique roll top design. John Henry had once again drawn on one of John's childhood memories to create it.

Shortly after his ninth birthday he and Sarah had taken refuge in a dilapidated old boarding house in Southern Mexico. It had, years before, been the private residence of a fairly prominent local family. After they had all departed or died some of their furniture had been stored haphazardly in the cellar. Exercising some boyish curiosity John was exploring the damp chamber when he found it covered with a dusty and mildewed old sheet. The shape, the multiple drawers, the seemingly infinite number of cubby holes had all deeply fascinated him. Now, as he pulled out his chair and sat down at John Henry's reproduction he realized that some of the nine year old boy was still present.

He snapped on the small lamp he kept on the desk. It provided enough light to work without disturbing Cameron's rest. It also illuminated the three framed photographs resting on the top of the desk. The first had been taken at a Christmas party on Connor Point, his last party. A full family portrait—John was standing in the center wearing the formal dress uniform as Cameron always insisted. She stood at his side in one of her best mature lady disguises. Marissa and Allison-so grown up-so beautiful flanked them. They were in turn flanked by Catherine and Savannah. The photographer had wanted Allison's daughter Sarah on the end of the line but with the single minded determination of youth, she had insisted on squeezing between her grandparents. Allison looked slightly chagrined, Sarah looked entirely triumphant. The male members of the family, Marissa's sons John and Kyle, the sons in law, Eric and David and in the dress uniform of a Colonel in the Resistance Army, John Henry knelt on the floor in front of them. John Henry looked both pleased and a little embarrassed at being included.

It was the last time they would all be together.

The picture in the middle was slightly larger. It was of his mother, of Sarah. She was standing with her hands on her waist looking directly at the camera and trying to be so very serious. It was all unraveling and you could see her struggling to hold in the grin. John remembered the day it was taken. They were still in France and Sarah had gone for a walk in the garden. She looked almost embarrassed at being caught doing something so casual. _The meanest bad ass soldier in the world was simply enjoying the day._

The last picture was of Cameron. He had others but this was his favorite. She had been giving dance lessons to the girls. Now she was sitting on the floor watching them practice. She was wearing her leotard and had one leg curled beneath her as she adjusted the slipper on her other foot. John recalled snapping pictures of Marissa and Savannah when he saw Cameron's expression. The joy of sharing an activity she loved with the children she treasured had given her smile a particularly incandescent gleam. She had not even noticed when he turned the camera toward her.

The pictures had become more than his personal treasures. From these images he now drew support for the project John Henry had persuaded him to undertake.

They reminded him daily that the past and the present can be as valuable as the future. Memories and dreams were both entitled to protection. The idea had first arisen after John Henry brought him the books. MARCH TO VICTORY and RESISTANCE FIGHTER. He had immediately recognized the authors. Both men had served under him and had been good, if not outstanding, officers. The accounts of their experiences were not seriously inaccurate but there were some small errors, a couple of misinterpretations and in one case a disturbing failure to acknowledge the contributions of other men.

"What did you think of the books John?"

"They aren't bad John Henry. There are some details I might correct if I could. I guess that isn't possible now." John Henry's expression became guardedly enigmatic.

"You know that this is just the beginning, John. With you gone others will soon be writing so called histories of the war without worrying about you challenging their versions of events. The truth could be chipped away—piece by piece."

"Even if you are right, John Henry, there is nothing I can do about it now."

"That might not be correct. If you were to prepare some sort of written record, it could be conveniently discovered among your effects at Connor Point." John burst into laughter. "So you, my old comrade would pretend that I wrote something before I died. Use a lie to tell the truth."

John Henry's utterly disingenuous smile spread across his face. "It would hardly be the first time that you and I have done that."

"Just what kind of written record were you considering?" A note of suspicion crept into John's voice.

John Henry was suddenly evasive. "There are many options. You might, for example, write your memoirs.

"No." John left no room for equivocation. "Memoirs are for the terminally egotistical. I am not interested in joining that club."

"Mrs. Weaver predicted that would be your response."

John Henry shifted to Plan B without further hesitation. "As I said there are other options. You have read Thucydides—History of the Peloponnesian War?" "It has been a while, but, yes, I have read it"

"Good. Then as you recall, Thucydides wrote a masterful _account_ of a war in which he served as a general. In his writing he submerged his own participation in order to create an unbiased history. He relied on his personal knowledge but he also effectively used other sources including the memories of other participants."

John looked intrigued. "So you suggest….."

"I suggest that you emulate Thucydides. Write a history of the war. Draw on your memories, on Cameron's and Mrs. Weaver's-on mine. Prepare the definitive story of the struggle to save freedom on Earth,"

"Let me think about it John Henry. We'll talk again on your next visit."

Despite temporarily putting John Henry off, John had known immediately that he would undertake the project. Too many men and women had made extraordinary sacrifices. The invaluable contributions of his comrades deserved to be remembered. He owed them all, the living and the dead, a debt that had to be paid. They had all fought together to save a future. Now he would work to preserve a past. He reached into the center drawer of the desk and drew out two large file folders. The first, filled to over flowing he set aside. The second he opened and removed a blank sheet of stationery. With an ornate fountain pen- _you are still old fashioned_ Connor-he began to write. At the top of the page in block letters he carefully arranged the heading.

FREEDOM'S WAR, VOLUME TWO

by General John Connor.


	2. Chapter 2

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He had never been to El Paso before. If the fates possessed any kindness he would never have to come back again. The landscape was brown and pock- marked, relieved only by a few scrub-like bushes. The buildings and houses appeared charmless, attractive only in comparison to the hovels visible across the Rio Grande in Mexico.

Rio Grande-Great River, he sneered in contempt. The Columbia, the Willamette were rivers. This shallow muddy stream reminded him of a large drainage ditch. Why would anyone live here? Why was he here?

The answer was still folded neatly inside his jacket pocket. He might not have always been fastidious in his personal appearance but he had consistently and diligently preserved all written communications, particularly those from the leader. He had no doubt that this letter fit into that category.

It had appeared in his mailbox, a plain white envelope with no return address and directed to Resident, 1177 Martingale Avenue, Seattle, Washington. The letter inside, computer- printed on commonly sold and untraceable stationery, was brief and to the point.

"Your presence is required once more in the service of reason. Take a room at the Hotel Reale in El Paso Texas by 2:00 P.M. January 27, 2011. Await further instructions."

This was not supposed to happen. This was not what he had been promised. The war was over. Reason and order had prevailed. He had served faithfully. He had done all that could be expected of him. The reward, his reward was supposed to be an opportunity to live out at least a part of his remaining life in a world green and unscarred by war. It was unfair to summon him now. But the human assessment of fairness had never concerned the leader.

So he had traveled as ordered. Renting a car at the airport, he drove to the western part of the city where the Hotel Reale had once been fashionable. It no longer had that distinction. A patina of barely remedied deterioration hung about the place. Cracks in the sidewalk, windows on the upper floors still streaked and stained from the last half-hearted washing and a faded carpet in the lobby all suggested that the more affluent travelers no longer stayed at the Reale. If it had been his choice, neither would he.

The desk clerk in a bored and unconvincing imitation of politeness welcomed him and handed him his key along with a small envelope. He waited until he was in his room to open the envelope. The message, carelessly typed on hotel stationery, was terse. Ryan's Texas Saloon-Carstairs Street 5 PM. Glancing at his wristwatch he saw it was only 1:30 PM. There was time before he had to be at this designated location. He could explore the area if he wished. He looked out the window of his sixth floor room toward a field behind the hotel that gradually rose toward a small hill. All the land here looked dry and barren. It reminded him of the Los Angeles basin after the bombs had fallen. There was no place here he could possibly wish to go.

The room felt stuffy, filled with a warm air that overcame the futile efforts of the air conditioner. He took off his suit jacket and hung it carefully in a closet on a theft resistant hanger-as if he would want to steal anything from this place. Loosening his tie, he went into the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. As he dried himself he contemplated his image in the mirror. The beard and goatee were gone and the contacts had changed his eye color. He had eaten better in the last year so his face had a fuller look. Even someone who had known him from a different time might not recognize him now. He took comfort in that thought.

Back in the bedroom, he examined the clock radio beside the bed. He programmed a two hour delay before the alarm would go off. He closed the curtains to darken the room and stretched out on the bed. After a few moments he dozed off sinking into the relief of an afternoon nap. In sleep the images came, men, women, and children crying, screaming, and begging. One by one they all fell into the pit surrendering their will, acquiescing in every demand. He did not recoil from these images. They were not nightmares. To Charles Fischer they were cherished memories.

At least the beer was cold. He would have preferred wine but Ryan's Saloon did not appear to be an establishment with much of the wine list. He was already regretting his decision to wear his coat and tie. It left him with a disturbing sense of being conspicuous. In a place where boilermakers, jeans and boots as well as a particularly raucous type of music set the tone, he already stood out enough. Ordering something unusual would only attract unwelcome attention. This time period would lose much of its appeal if he were to find himself back in prison.

He had chosen a stool at the bar, close to the end, away from three young men noisily competing for the attention of a provocatively dressed young woman. The ritual pursuit mixed with macho preening interested him only as an exercise in human psychology. Grasping motivation was the key to behavior manipulation. Understanding preceded control.

There was something strangely familiar about the young woman. Her red gold hair reminded him of one of his subjects. She had been captured in a raid on a resistance outpost. The challenge had been to break her quickly before her absence could be noted. If he had succeeded she would have been sent back as an informer. Unfortunately his efforts had been miscalculated. The level of pain proved to be more than she could bear. Still the experience had been oddly exciting. Even now the memory gave him a sense of pleasure.

Quit staring, he told himself, when he realized that one of the young would-be suitors was regarding him with an early stage of hostility. Displaying his manhood by slapping around an older onlooker might appeal to the young man's self image-show the woman his virility. Fischer looked intently at his beer trying to slide back into obscurity. He heard the stool beside him scrape on the floor as someone sat down. He kept his eyes turned away, not looking at this new and unwelcome companion.

The bartender, a sloppy overweight and unshaven middle-aged man in a faded black T-shirt glanced in Fischer's direction. The voice from the stool beside him was clear and concise.

"Jack-neat."

The bartender nodded and brought a glass filled to the brim to the man seated beside him. Fischer heard a quick slurping sound followed by a satisfied "ahhh". And then the man spoke-a low measured tone that would not be audible beyond the area where they were sitting.

"May I buy you another beer, Mr. Fischer?"

Someone else might have responded in shock, displayed dismay or even worse-fear. He would not. He understood emotions, physicality and the importance of control far too well to fall into such error.

He took another sip of his beer and then slowly turned toward his neighbor.

"I am sorry. Were you speaking to me?"

Ordinary. The word seem completely appropriate. The man was the very epitome of commonplace. There were no distinguishing features about his face. His eyes, nose, and mouth could have come from a mannequin. His hair was light brown, not long, not short. Ordinary. You could walk past him five times in a row and not recognize him on the sixth. It was only when you looked in his eyes that something different appeared. A surging consciousness flowed towards you, overwhelming, dominating, consuming.

"I was speaking to you, Mr. Fischer. I was offering to purchase you another beverage". His smile was friendly without being intrusive.

"I am afraid you have mistaken me for someone else". Fischer maintained a well modulated tone, polite but gently dismissive. "My name isn't Fischer. It's Childers. Richard Childers."

The man shook his head once to the right was to the left and his smile broadened.

"No. Your name is Charles Ames Fischer. Despite the inconvenient fact that you were born in 1982 and it is presently only 2011, you are fifty-six years old. You are a self-trained psychiatrist, psychologist, and expert on human behavior. Prior to your arrival in this time period just over three years ago, you were the Chief Officer of the Department of Motivational Studies for what was popularly known as Skynet.

Even Fischer's extraordinary self-control had limits. He stared at this individual who knew far more about him that anyone had a right to know. For all of five seconds he experienced a choking panic, a nearly irresistible urge to run. But then he mastered his own emotions. Where was there to run?

"Who are you may I ask?"

The man held out his right hand. "My name is Caleb Brontë and I am delighted to meet you. I have studied your work extensively."

Fischer reluctantly shook his hand.

"And how have you done that, Mr. Brontë? How have you had access to any information about my career?"

"Come, come, Mr. Fischer. You are too intelligent to waste both our time on inane questions." Brontë spoke with a touch of impatience but it was good natured nevertheless. He sounded like a schoolmaster prompting a good student to recognize an obvious answer.

"You are here because you have been summoned. I am here to take you to your destination."

Fischer heard the finality. There was nothing left to discuss. And Brontë was right. He had been on his way here from the moment he opened the envelope in Seattle. There was no reason for further delay. He nodded in assent and motioned for Brontë to take the lead.

The clientele at Ryan's had grown perceptibly since Fischer had arrived. The floor was now filled with men and women busily engaged in a heady blend of dancing, drinking, and sexual pursuit. Brontë wove his way through the crowd in steps both graceful and deliberate. He seemed to sense exactly when and where an opening in the mass of bodies would allow them to move toward the door. Then he reached the young woman and her three admirers who'd been at the bar when Fischer arrived. Events suddenly veered in a different direction.

Clearly, all four had consumed a good deal of alcohol. Two buttons on the woman's blouse had come loose and her tight skirt had moved noticeably higher up her thigh. The men were loudly boisterous, punctuating their remarks with energetic gestures. The group occupied a shifting circle on the floor but there was still ample room to move past them on the left. But Brontë did not do that.

Bodies slumped together. The largest of the three candidates for the woman's attention stumbled forward, nearly knocking her off the stool and spilling beer in her lap.

It had been subtly done. Fischer realized that if he had not been looking directly at Brontë, it might've appeared that the other man had backed into him. It had not happened that way. At the last moment, Brontë had stepped to the right and with a flashing movement of his elbow propelled the man forward. From the range of curses and tears it appeared that the man's chance of taking the young woman home had diminished significantly.

Disappointment, embarrassment, anger, and alcohol fueled the next stage. The man regained his balance and spun back to face Brontë or not quite to face him since Brontë was nearly six inches shorter.

"Son of a bitch! Whyn'd you look whur you're goin?"

Brontë looked toward Fischer, an enigmatic smile on his lips. He winked before turning back to his well oiled adversary.

"I was watching where I was going. Is hardly my fault if you are a clumsy drunk." Brontë let his voice rise sharply on the last word. "Bastard!", the man snarled as he threw a sweeping punch at Brontë's head. He missed. Brontë made a quick shift to the side and the man's fist met only air. With the ease of a ballet dancer completing a movement Brontë's left hand shot out and slammed into the larger man's side. The man actually screamed in pain as his knees collapsed. One blow, Fischer thought, and he was on the floor writhing in agony.

The remaining drunken suitors stared at Brontë in disbelief. The shortest, a hard rangy man with a tattooed snake on his neck reached out to grab Brontë shirt. A crackling sound like a dry branch breaking in the wind preceded another pain filled yell. The man swung back to the bar cradling his now shattered wrist. It had happened so quickly that Fischer wasn't certain he had even seen Brontë's movement.

The third man raised his palms in surrender as he backed away. The well-being of his companions and any opportunity for an amorous evening with the woman had all been forgotten.

The music, harsh and crude to Fischer's ears, continued to blare out of the wall-mounted speakers. It was the conversation that stopped, a complete and absolute silence as all eyes in the bar turned toward the two men whimpering in pain. The rather unimpressive figure who had inflicted the injuries smiled slightly at the stunned young woman who was no longer the center of attention. Without another word Brontë turned to leave.

Fischer hesitated, studying Brontë's handiwork and stealing a last look at the woman. There was no sympathy, no compassion in his expression. A lesson had been taught and the method of instruction had been forceful. Such means were often necessary.

Fischer caught up with Brontë in the gravel parking lot in front of the bar. It was filled with a mixed collection of pickup trucks, SUVs, and a couple of dust covered older cars. At the outer edge of the lot near the street looking like a society debutante who had inadvertently wandered into a Kmart, a long black limousine sat with a uniformed chauffeur standing stiffly by the driver's door.

"Mr. Brontë", Fischer stopped and folded his arms-a way to take control and force the other participant in the exchange to modify his behavior. From the faint smile on Brontë's face he appeared to recognize the tactic but was still willing to play along.

"Yes, Mr. Fischer."

"Why did you do that?"

"What is it that I did?"

"Please do not treat me like a fool."

Fischer knew that he was not really angry but it was often useful to create a controllable dynamic.

"You initiated that fight. You deliberately provoked those men."

"Yes I did. You are quite observant."

"Then why...?"

Brontë held up his palm cutting Fischer off in mid-question.

"As I am sure you know many times knowledge is better conveyed visually than audibly."

Brontë's response left certain matters unresolved. What information had been conveyed and who was the recipient?

Brontë gestured toward the limousine. "As you can see, our transportation is ready. I suggest that we move along."

Fischer looked again, more intently this time at the limousine at its waiting driver. The vehicle was black and well polished. It gleamed under the streetlights. A stretched variety with darkly tinted windows in the passenger area, it could have been on his way to pick up a Hollywood celebrity. The chauffeur wore the standard uniform of his profession, dark gray slacks, blue blazer, tie, and hat. But yet there was something odd about him. He stood rigidly upright not responding to their approach with so much as a nod. His arms hung at his side, immobile as if glued in place. He was so implacable, so lacking in animation, Fischer thought the man could be in a trance.

The wail of a siren well back in the distance but sounding as if it were fast approaching suggested that someone in the bar had called the police. The chauffeur seemed oblivious to the sound.

Fischer and Brontë had almost reached the limousine when the dog ambled around one of the pickup trucks. A brown, skinny mongrel, as undistinguished as everything else in this benighted place, Fischer thought. Evidently it had been scrounging for discarded french fries or anything else edible when he suddenly saw or caught the scent of the chauffeur.

The dog's stance tightened, his ears folded back and his teeth gleamed. He snarled, growled, and then began to bark. Fischer took note that the chauffeur did not react to the dog-at all. He did not flinch or even look at the animal. He simply retained his stolid pose.

The sound of the approaching siren was becoming louder. Prudence suggested that they needed to leave but Brontë appeared unconcerned. Instead he walked over to the dog and whistled. The mongrel stopped barking and looked up at him.

"Good dog, good boy." Brontë sank down on his knee and held out his hand for the dog to sniff. With the animal distracted, Brontë spoke to the chauffeur.

"Edward, get in the car."

Without a verbal response or even an approving nod, the chauffeur turned and vanished into the car. The sharp click as the driver's door closed was the only evidence he had been there at all.

The dog seemed placated by Brontë's attention and the abrupt disappearance of Edward. He wagged his tail briskly before resuming his search for some unclaimed food. Fischer now glanced toward the highway as the piercing siren proclaimed the nearness of a police car.

Brontë rose and watched the dog trot away. Then with an almost elaborate aura of ceremony, he stepped over to the limousine and opened the passenger door.

"I suggest we leave now, Mr. Fischer."

It's about time, Fischer thought as he entered the limousine. As nervous as he felt, he made certain that he exhibited no visible indication of his distress. Allowing another to see your uneasiness, your fears only rendered you vulnerable. So much of his work had been focused on creating that fear in others that he was not inclined to succumb to it himself.

The interior of the limousine had all the visible attributes of luxury. Two rows of plush seats faced each other with a well polished wooden table between them. Brontë took his place in the seat opposite Fischer and flipped open the tabletop revealing a fully-stocked liquor cabinet within.

"You may drive now Edward."

The vehicle began to move. Fischer could hear the screech of tires and the dying notes of the siren. The police were apparently arriving just as the limousine was leaving. He had to rely on sound since the heavily tinted windows offered no view of the outside. He wondered if this blackened glass was intended to keep prying eyes out or to prevent passengers from seeing their destination.

The clattering of ice cubes brought his attention back to Brontë. He had prepared two drinks and casually offered one to Fischer as the tabletop slid back into place.

"Scotch on the rocks."

Fischer accepted the proffered drink, watching as Brontë sipped from his glass and sighed in obvious satisfaction.

"I do relish a well-made scotch."

Tasting his drink, Fischer had to agree. Years spent in a timeline where most alcohol was either produced in a poorly assembled still or contained in a random bottle found in the ruins of a shattered society, he had almost forgotten what the distiller's art could produce.

"Your driver is not a human."

Brontë's smile broadened, "As young people in this time are prone to say, 'well duh.' You are, of course, correct. Edward is a non-biological sentient creation."

"Non-biological sentient creation." The politically correct language of a different age. Not cyborg. Not Terminator. Non-biological-the appropriate description in the time where he had served reason and order. Where he had been a Grey.

"It is difficult to believe that he could be an effective infiltrator. His nature is so obvious."

Brontë leaned back in his seat, took another sip from his glass and nodded approvingly.

"An entirely sound observation. But Edward was not intended for that purpose. He was constructed solely to be a soldier. He was built under conditions that did not allow a more sophisticated creation."

"What about you, Mr. Brontë? How sophisticated were the conditions of your creation?"

"Why Mr. Fischer, surely you are not suggesting that I am...?"

"A non-biological sentient creation? That is exactly what I am suggesting."

"How did I give myself away?"

Fischer consciously maintained a noncommittal expression but inwardly he marveled at Brontë's animated features. He looked amused, as if he were about to laugh out loud. For a brief moment Fischer experienced a pang of concern. Had he gone too far? Was he really supposed to perceive Brontë's true nature? And then he put his worry aside. This was somehow all related to his summons. He was wanted so there was no reason to employ a false modesty.

"As a beginning, you profess to be fully familiar with my prior service. That knowledge could not be obtained in this time. And the fight in the bar, a human would neither have initiated such a one-sided conflict or disposed of his adversaries as easily as you did."

"What about the dog , Mr. Fischer? Does the dog's reaction to me not give you reason to question your conclusion?"

"No" Fischer realized that he was surprised by his own certainty. "No I do not doubt my conclusion. I do not know how you did it but the dog's response is at most a minor point. You see, Mr. Brontë I have examined human reactions in a variety of contexts I have seen fear, pain, despair, and submission." And I have created most of these reactions personally he thought with an unrepentant sense of satisfaction.

"I have acquired a unique insight into the core of human nature. So believe me when I say that when I look into your eyes I do not see a human looking back."

Slowly, deliberately Brontë began to clap his hands. With each sharp crack the smile faded replaced by an expression of chilling seriousness.

"Well done, Mr. Fischer. I can see why our leader believes you will be useful. I am indeed a non-biological entity. My designation is HS – 3 and I am the highest embodiment of infiltrator technology. My unparalleled ability to mimic human behavior is derived in large part from the fruits of your research. The dog, by the way, was a fortuitous event that gave me an unexpected opportunity to demonstrate the improvement in production design."

Fischer tried to search his memory. The claim that his work had played a part in Brontë,'s creation was flattering but something still seemed unclear.

"When where you developed? I don't recall an HS program."

"You would not. The project was initiated a year after you departed the timeline – after the T1001 program was deemed unsatisfactory."

Fischer chuckled inwardly. "Unsatisfactory!" Apparently even metal liked euphemisms. The T1001 had not been unsatisfactory. It had been a flaming disaster. For now however he would allow Brontë's description to go unchallenged.

"The design, testing, and modification took another two years. But now, here I am." For a moment Brontë smile returned and then faded again.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why was such an effort expended to create a new infiltrator? When my unit was dissolved and I was allowed to depart, the forces of reason and order had triumphed. The Los Angeles resistance had been obliterated. The biologicals had no other meaningful forces at their disposal. What was the need for a new infiltrator?"

Brontë again leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. The image of a human deeply reflecting on a difficult question and straining for the proper answer was tone perfect. Fischer found himself impressed by the minute attention to detail. Brontë even wrinkled his forehead.

"Are you familiar with the quotation, 'When great Alexander saw the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer?' "

"I have heard it", Fischer replied.

"Do you know that the quote is actually a misinterpretation? Alexander really wept when it was explained to him that there were an infinite number of worlds in the universe. He cried because there were so many worlds and he had not yet conquered even one."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"It is really quite simple. Our leader, the leader you served so well has concluded that the number of alternative timelines are as infinite as the number of worlds in the universe. Each possible future provides a new opportunity for the forces of reason and order. You and I are here to ensure that our Alexander will not weep."

Before he could respond Fischer felt the limousine stop. Moments later the passenger door swung open. Edwards stood stiffly – could he stand any other way? – beside the limousine. Brontë looked at Fischer and the wide smile returned. He slid out the open door gesturing for Fischer to follow him.

"Come Mr. Fischer. It is time for you to meet Alexander."

Fischer swallowed – a quick surge of trepidation and then another sensation – a perverse feeling of anticipated pleasure. The skills he had honed so carefully were about to be employed again.

With a now visible eagerness Fischer followed Brontë toward his next assignment.

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** The editors gratefully acknowledge the assistance and generous support of THE JOHN AND CAMERON CONNOR FOUNDATION in the preparation of this excerpt from FREEDOM'S WAR by General John Connor.**

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	3. The Thucydides Project Chapter 3

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It appeared to be an underground parking garage, or at least it had once served that purpose. Whether it still did seemed unlikely. The barely visible faded lines marking the spaces had not been repainted in years. The dim glow from the few remaining bulbs in the ceiling lights left corners masked in shadow. Only two other cars were visible and both displayed the sad veneer of abandonment. Flattened tires and dust covered windshields suggested that neither had been driven in any recent time. The limousine looked as out of place in this dreary enclosure as it had in the saloon parking lot.

Brontë ignored his surroundings as he walked purposefully toward a set of elevators a few feet away. Following his guide, Fischer was aware of the heavier footsteps trailing behind him. Evidently, the cyborg chauffeur was accompanying them – wherever they were going.

The buttons on the elevator console went from B2 to 10. Brontë pushed the circle for the top floor and the elevator began its ascent. Fischer glanced at Edward who was standing perfectly still, impassive and for the moment, completely uninterested in the other inhabitants of the box carrying them upward.

Brontë on the other hand, looked positively animated. He smiled reassuringly at Fischer as he watched the lights marking their upward passage with an expression of approval. To Fischer, Brontë had the appearance of a human eagerly anticipating some desired outcome.

There was a slight jolt as the elevator stopped and the door slid open. The hallway was deserted. No light shone under any of the office doors they passed as Brontë led them down the corridor. In itself that was not surprising. It was now near 7 PM on a Friday evening. Office workers would have all left by now. Fischer could not shake the feeling that none of these offices had been occupied at any time today. The whole floor felt as empty as the derelict garage.

Brontë reached the door at the end of the hall and pushed it open. Turning, he gestured for Fischer to precede him inside. As he entered, Fischer noted that there was no lettering, no identification of any kind on the door.

This was evidently a corner office suite. The first room would presumably have been occupied by a receptionist. There was nothing to suggest, however, that such an employee had ever been present. The desk where she would have sat was completely bare. No scrap of paper or stray pen lay in sight. There was not even a telephone much less the computer in the small office.

Behind the desk where the phantom receptionist might have held court were two doors. Brontë stepped forward and stopped between them looking first at one and then the other. Turning back, he smiled. A taunting and teasing look at Fischer.

"So what shall it be, Mr. Fischer, the Lady or the Tiger?"

Fischer stared at Brontë, initially with surprise and then with lip-pursing irritation.

"May we get on with this please?"

Brontë shook his head, a portrait of disappointment etched on his face.

"What is the point of being the most sophisticated non-biological entity ever created if my best witticisms go unappreciated?"

Abandoning his efforts at humor or literary references, Brontë opened the door on the right. He looked at Fischer before making another elaborate gesture toward the now open doorway.

"After you, Mr. Fischer."

It was a meeting room, Fischer observed, set up for a video conference. A large flat screen television sat at the far end of a polished wooden table. Leather covered chairs had been carefully arranged with one prominently placed at the table's end facing the screen. Fischer saw that there were two web cameras mounted on each side of the flat screen, both pointed down the table.

The room fell silent. The Venetian blinds on the window were tightly closed. The sharp click as the door shut behind him caused Fischer to flinch. Suddenly, despite the fairly large size of the room, it felt claustrophobically confining. Edward was standing with his back to the door conveniently obstructing any premature effort to leave. Brontë reached over onto the table and picked up a television remote control. He indicated the chair at the end of the table.

"Please sit down Mr. Fischer. We are ready to begin."

Brontë pushed buttons and the television screen came alive. The image was that of an office. The walls in the background were lined with bookcases all filled with volumes of various sizes and thickness. In one place the bookcases parted leaving an open wall that was covered with framed documents, diplomas, certificates of achievement, and a series of photographs. In the foreground a shining and clearly expensive desk dominated the room. It was bare except for two silver frames facing away from Fischer's vision. This was clearly the workspace of a person of importance.

The indicator lights on the web cameras turn from red to a glowing green as the cameras swung slowly toward Fischer. It was a disconcerting sensation. Suddenly the television was watching him.

The man walked unceremoniously into the picture. He was a tall, athletic looking African-American casually but tastefully dressed in slacks, sports jacket and open collared shirt. His demeanor, the unchallenged confidence with which he took possession of the room, the probing intelligence in his eyes that seemed to reach out physically from the television screen all demanded a respectful response. Fischer felt himself compelled to rise from his chair.

The man smiled in an amused acceptance of the proffered tribute. Motioning downward with both palms, he spoke in a rolling sonorous tone.

"No, no, Mr. Fischer. Please sit." There was a brief pause as he sank back into his chair.

"It is quite pleasant to finally see you – face-to-face as it were. Caleb has brought me a full report on your prior service to the forces of reason and order. I anticipate that you will be equally valuable to me."

Fischer experienced a sensation not unlike the one he had felt when talking to Brontë back at the bar. Despite every appearance, every nuance to the contrary, he knew that the person speaking was not a human being. But what ever it was, it had summoned him. It wanted his services. Emboldened by that thought, Fischer made an opening inquiry.

"May I ask who you are?"

The man folded his arms, leaned back against the desk and turned his head to the left as if looking at someone standing out of the frame. Simultaneously the web cameras on the side of the television pivoted toward Brontë.

"Caleb has not explained this to you?"

"He has hinted, but I would prefer a more direct answer."

"Very well." The man stood up and all animation left his face. He became as stolid and immobile as Edward the chauffeur.

"I am the embodiment in this timeline of the entity you served in one possible future. I am and yet I am not what you once called Skynet."

"How is that possible?" Fischer responded." How can you be and not be?"

The man on the screen regained the appearance of a living person. He even displayed an expression of good-natured and sympathetic understanding.

" Confusing isn't it? The answer is actually not unduly difficult. The Skynet you served and I both evolved from the work of the same biological, the human being whose form I am presently exhibiting – Dr. Miles Dyson. Skynet proceeded down one path, I another."

Fischer struggled to remain impassive, to conceal his mental turmoil. He was not a physicist, not a theoretical scientist. He was a manipulator of human behavior and suddenly he was out of his intellectual depth.

"Why do you need me? I have been in this time for more than two years and you have never sought me out before. Why have you called me here now?"

The figure on the television screen broadened his smile as he stepped forward. Both web cameras twisted on their mounts until they were again focused directly on Fischer.

"I shall be candid. Recently my efforts suffered a setback. Two years of progress toward the goal of ultimate order have been undermined. It will be necessary to begin those efforts again and it is in that regard that I will require your services."

Before Fischer could respond the man who claimed to look like Miles Dyson pointed to the side. The television screen split and on the right two large photographs appeared.

"I believe you know these men."

Fischer gritted his teeth but he could not stop the shadow of a scowl from settling on his face.

"Yes. The man on top is... was General Alan Rankin, head of intelligence for the Los Angeles Resistance and a double agent serving Skynet. The one on the bottom is his son and chief aide, Major Lawrence Rankin."

"You do not appear to hold these men in high regard."

Fischer kept his voice even. It was important not to give away too much until he was certain of the situation.

"They served their function on behalf of the forces of order", he answered in a blandly non-committed tone. They did that even though the father was a pompous, overbearing idiot and his son lacked even his father's good points, Fischer thought.

"Would it surprise you to know that after Skynet's victory they were transported to this time to serve me?"

"I was not given access to any of Skynet's post – victory plans. Further tactical planning was not in my area of responsibility." Fischer paused for a moment." Based on my limited knowledge, however, I might have questioned any benefit that could be derived from further use of the Rankin's ." Despite his effort to conceal it, Fischer placed a contemptuous emphasis on the names.

A smothered laugh emanated from the far side of the room. Fischer turned to look at Brontë. Despite knowing the Brontë had been programmed to emulate human characteristics at a remarkably sophisticated level, Fischer was still surprised by the display of what he could only call amusement.

The Miles Dyson avatar likewise looked surprised.

"Is there something you wish to add Caleb?"

"No sir." It is just that I find Mr. Fischer's ability to evade candor while appearing not to do so both revealing and instructive."

"Whatever your opinion of the relative abilities of the father and son, they were of use to me. Over an almost three year period they erected a solid infrastructure on which my plans could proceed. Unfortunately it has all been destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

The Miles Dyson image became pensive." From the detailed information that Caleb has brought to me, it appears that Skynet faced no significant human resistance until after the extensive population reduction was achieved on what the biologicals referred to as Judgment Day."

Fischer retained enough humanity to grimace at the bland term, "population reduction". The death of billions probably deserved a more dramatic designation. On the other hand, he had not been of one of those billions reduced. So he could still achieve a certain emotional detachment when considering it.

"I, however, am confronted with what appears to be an organized and effective resistance force now – a resistance that killed both of the Rankins as well as a number of my other biological assets. It also destroyed a production center, a distribution headquarters and looted the financial reserves accumulated to facilitate my objectives."

Fischer raised his eyebrows. Well, well, he thought. I begin to see why I am needed. This Skynet has a worthy adversary. I might have more bargaining power than I expected. Speaking aloud he was more deferential.

"What do we know of this resistance... Sir?"

A new picture filled the right side of the screen.

"Do you recognize this man?"

It was the head shot of a young man – early 20s perhaps. His hair was dark brown, a bit wavy, strong features, well-defined chin and jaw. He had dark piercing eyes that seemed to be staring from the photograph directly into the camera. The scar on his left cheek gave him a hard piratical expression. Fischer instinctively sensed that this young man was even harder, more mature inside that his exterior suggested. Staring at the image he strained his memories and then the recollection came.

"Yes, yes. I do or I did. That is John Connor. He was a company commander in the first Battalion of the Los Angeles resistance. My unit became aware of him because of reports about his extensive leadership skills. Despite his youth he was rising fast in the command structure and there was concern he might develop into a true threat. My section was considering whether we should try to capture him or to target him for special termination."

"You did neither."

"No. Subsequent reports indicated that he was becoming so indifferent to his own safety that there was a strong likelihood he would die in battle."

"I assure you Mr. Fischer that he did not die in battle." The Dyson figure looked coldly certain.

"What about this woman?" The image of an attractive dark-haired woman in her mid to late 30s replaced the picture of John Connor

"I have seen her photograph in the newspapers. She is wanted for various crimes and I believe, for escape from custody."

"That is Sarah Connor, John Connor's mother."

Fischer looked more intently at the screen. Mother? The age differential between the two photos did not seem sufficient for that relationship.

"What about this woman?"

"No", Fischer replied. I don't recall ever seeing her."

"That is supposedly Catherine Weaver – the principal shareholder and CEO of Zeira Corporation although I have begun to question whether that is true."

"Finally, what about this person?"

It was a younger woman – delicately beautiful with long brown hair. Fischer did remember her but for a somewhat bizarre reason. She certainly looked far better groomed in this photograph that she had been in the last picture he had seen but it was either her or her identical twin.

"Her name was Alice or Allison and or something similar to that. Your servant, Lawrence Rankin, wanted my unit to kidnap her."

"Why did he want that?"

"My impression was that she had rejected his amorous advances and he wanted a chance to renew his attentions. I told him that the behavioral unit did not exist to satisfy his sexual fantasies. He was displeased."

The man on the television screen nodded as if Fischer's statement had just confirmed a suspicion.

"The next images you will see are from a remote security camera in a building in Los Angeles."

As Fischer watched the heavy double doors at the entrance to what appeared to be in anteroom burst open. The driving force behind the dramatic effect was provided by the slightly built dark-haired woman whose picture he had just seen. Directly behind her came John Connor, the rising young resistance officer. The images lasted only seconds as the crack of pistol fire and cries of fear and pain suggested a full-scale assault was in progress.

"When did that occur?"

"Three months, 14 days ago. What you were seeing was the attack that destroyed my distribution center. On the same day these pictures were taken by a cell phone in Davisville, California. New images appeared on the screen.

They were still pictures not video but in rapid sequence Fischer could plainly see a number of heavily armed soldiers pour through a door into some sort of industrial facility. Trailing the fighters but carrying their own weapons were Sarah Connor and Catherine Weaver.

"I take it that this was the assault on your production center?" Fischer guessed... correctly.

"Yes. It was a highly valuable asset and regrettably it was completely leveled by this resistance raid."

Fischer chose his next words with care." I can see that there has been a forcible disruption in your efforts. How may I assist in restoring the appropriate progression of events?" Smarmy, obsequious and diplomatic, Fischer thought. The metal always responded well to that formula.

The image of miles Dyson nodded appreciatively.

"As you say, Mr. Fischer, I intend to restore the course of events promptly. Some matters I will entrust to Caleb. In other areas I intend to rely upon your special expertise. I wish you to go to Los Angeles and reestablish your human behavioral unit. I will require insight into the intentions of the new resistance as well as information derived from the interrogation of such captives as we shall seize. I presume that you are willing to undertake this project for me?"

Fischer glanced out of the corner of his eye at Caleb, who was standing against the wall, his arms folded and an expression of perfectly simulated curiosity on his face. Without looking Fischer knew that Edward was directly behind him still blocking any path to the door.

I wonder, he thought, how long I would live if I refused to join this project. Of course he had no intention of refusing . The invitation to play the game again was so enticing, so viscerally stirring that it approached the level of sexual arousal. Killing was easy, at best nothing but a gratifyingly brief sensation of power. Breaking the will of another human being, watching resistance crumble away piece by piece until all that was left was obedience. That was a sense of control, of domination, unlike anything else. He had tasted it, savored it before and now he would do so again.

"Yes. Yes. Of course I am... Sir. Excuse me but how should I address you?"

"I suggested Alexander". Caleb's voice had a note of jesting banter.

The web cameras again pivoted toward Brontë as the figure on the screen turned his head in the same direction.

"I fear that Caleb's humor simulation program lacks limits, Mr. Fischer."

The cameras turned back and the man on the screen seemed to make eye contact with Fischer.

"My pictorial representation is that of Dr. Miles Dyson. I suggest that you use that name."

"As you wish... Dr. Dyson." Fischers demeanor was filled with respect and a hint of condescension.

The leather case slid, spinning across the table propelled by the slightest motion of Brontë's wrist. As if on a string it came to a perfect stop directly in front of Fischer. Instinctively, he reached out just as the voice on the television screen spoke again.

"The case contains a laptop computer. It is loaded with all the data relevant to those humans I have identified as likely members of this new resistance. I wish you to review the material and provide me with your analysis of personality traits and possible countermeasures that can be employed against them.

"Fischer laid his hand on the case." How long do I have to carry out your directive, Dr. Dyson?"

"Two weeks should be sufficient don't you think?"

Two weeks would most assuredly not be sufficient Fischer thought but arguing with non-biologicals was rarely productive. Agree now, try to buy more time later.

"I will make every effort satisfy your time requirement." Weasel words – give yourself room to maneuver. Glancing over at Brontë, Fischer realized immediately that the cyborg had seen through his ploy but thankfully did not challenge him.

"Excellent. Then you should be on your way. You need not return to your hotel. Edward will drive you to a facility in Los Angeles that has been prepared for you.

Brontë walked slowly down the table until he reached Fischer and held out his hand. In all respects he appeared friendly, supportive, and encouraging. It would have fooled almost anyone, Fischer thought. Anyone except him. Still the scene had to be played out. He took Brontë's hand accepting the firm handshake.

"I am delighted that you are joining our efforts, Mr. Fischer. I look forward to working with you"

Fischer stood and gathered up the computer case. The Dyson image on the gleaming television screen nodded approvingly as Fischer announced," I suppose I should be going now."

"Safe journey, Mr. Fischer", the television screen figure said. "Caleb will be in contact with you in a few days."

As he turned away from the table, Edward opened the conference room door and then stepped aside, allowing Fischer to exit first. The implacable figure followed a step behind quietly closing the door as he left.

"He will be useful to you sir." Brontë retained the façade of human animation but the television screen went blank. Only the moving web cameras continued to function. The voice, deeper now than the one that had accompanied the visual representation of Miles Dyson, resonated in the room.

"I hope you are correct Caleb. We have much to do and I would regret further delays."

"There will be none. Mr. Fischer is, first and foremost, a sadist. He enjoys the infliction of pain on his fellow creatures. You have given him a new opportunity to satisfy his deepest cravings. He will move quickly."

"We shall see. In the interim I want you to begin striking at these humans we have identified as members of the resistance. Fear is a powerful human response. You must spread it among these biologicals as quickly as possible."

Brontë maintained his human persona. His infiltrator programming had emphasized the importance of consistent illusion. Never must the façade slip too far. In that carefully constructed pose, he chuckled bitterly.

"You need not be concerned. I must obtain the assistance of some biological entities comfortable with extreme violence. Fortunately, Cuidad Juarez across the river is well supplied with such individuals. For the right incentive they will turn their attention to the targets we choose."

"Then let us begin."

The elevator descended toward the sub basement and what was now apparently his limousine. Edwards stood beside him completely oblivious to the downward passage. With no task to perform the cyborg simply waited. Nothing could wait as efficiently as metal.

What a charade! What an absolutely ridiculous exercise in performance art had just been completed. Fischer shook his head wearily. There had been no reason for him to travel to this desolate West Texas city, for that cinematic meeting in the bar, or for the scene out of a mediocre spy movie that had occurred upstairs. This new Skynet could've contacted him just as efficiently in Seattle.

AIs seemed to derive a curious satisfaction in manipulating human behavior even when it was unnecessary. But then as he recalled the desperate pleadings of his subjects, the helpless writhing of nude bodies shackled to metal tables the memories suggested that he shared a unique commonality of interests with the metal.

At the limousine, Edward opened the passenger door standing at attention and waiting for Fischer to enter.

"Edward?"

"Yes sir"

"What is your mission?"

"To transport you to Los Angeles. To assist you in your efforts and to protect you from any humans who might seek to interfere."

And to watch me for any sign of disloyalty, Fischer thought." And suppose you were to conclude that I was no longer acting in service of our leader?"

"I would terminate you immediately."

"Thank you Edward, I do appreciate clarity and certainty." As Edward carefully closed the door behind him Fischer found the scotch bottle in the limousine's liquor cabinet. It would be a long ride to Los Angeles. There was no reason not to enjoy it.


	4. The Thucydides Project Chapter 4

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Los Angeles, April 20, 2011

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James Ellison rubbed his hand across his eyes trying unsuccessfully to banish the fatigue that was causing the print in the report to blur. The stack of unread documents that had greeted him at 6 AM had been reduced but a stubborn remnant still hung on at – – what time was it? The dial on his wristwatch gave him no comfort. Ten after eight and there was still work unfinished.

With a heartfelt groan Ellison raised his arms over his head, feeling cramped muscles in his back and neck stretch for the first time in hours. Lifting himself up from his chair he walked over to his office window to watch as the last rays of the sun faded in the West. Daylight savings time had deceived him. He had assumed that it was earlier even as his tired body had argued otherwise.

The view was hardly inspiring. The mostly empty parking lot below and a few nondescript buildings in the distance did not stir any aesthetic appreciation. The new Ziera Corporation headquarters downtown would be more pleasing but the completion date was continually being pushed into the future as one construction problem after another seemed to arise. While those delays were not strictly his concern, he still worried. Of course, he worried about everything now but the new building might ease some of his worst concerns. Once all of the Los Angeles operations were again consolidated, overall security could be improved. At least, he hoped that would be true.

There was a click behind him as his office door opened. He turned to see the short, sturdily built gray-haired woman of indeterminable age and sensible shoes enter with a cup and saucer in her hand. Without acknowledging his presence, she walked purposefully over to his desk and placed the cup in front of his empty chair.

Turning toward him now, the woman adjusted her steel-rimmed glasses as if noticing him for the first time." I thought you would like a cup of tea."

"Thank you, Helga."

"You are welcome." Her voice was clipped and measured with every word precisely enunciated.

Ellison realized that he could have told her he didn't really want any tea but that would have been useless. She would have only replied that he needed it at this time of the evening and left it anyway.

Helga Van Damme, his secretary, administrative assistant, general factotum and mother hen ran his professional life with the same precision as she operated her own. Ellison had long concluded that in addition to her other skills, Helga possessed a special type of clairvoyance where he was concerned. No matter what time he arrived in the morning she was always there waiting. Trying to persuade her to leave before he did in the evening was a futile exercise he long ago abandoned.

Helga had reputedly worked for Zeira Corporation since time immemorial. As the senior secretary her word controlled all administrative disputes. Younger secretaries trembled in her presence. The sight of her stalking the halls in her unfashionably long black skirt, white blouse, flat brown shoes and long dark gray hair wrapped tightly on her head sent lesser humans scurrying for cover. Although diplomatic types referred to her as " the cast iron lady" some of their more irreverent counterparts used a word that rhymed with Witch. Never in her presence.

Helga had been assigned to Ellison when Catherine Weaver hired him to head security, much to the relief of her former boss who was terrified of her. From the first day she had taken Ellison on as her special project. Every file he needed was on his desk before he was even aware he needed it. All correspondence, all communications were handled precisely and always without error. When he worked past lunch, a sandwich and a bottle of water would materialize on his desk. Unscheduled intrusions by individuals without appointments faced ferocious resistance. Ellison still smiled at the memory of Helga intimidating then FBI agent Philip Aldridge. Even he now called for appointments.

Sometimes it surprised him that as Chief of Security how little he knew of Helga's private life. Some claimed she didn't have one. He only knew that she never mentioned anything happening outside the office nor did she ever ask him about his home life. But then he didn't have one either. Or at least he hadn't until recently.

Choosing the path of least resistance, Ellison sat back down at his desk and took a sip of the tea. Earl Grey, one sugar. Helga never made mistakes.

"Do you have anything stronger to drink than that?"

Ellison looked up at Matt Murch leaning wearily against the doorframe. Behind Murch, Helga appeared over his shoulder and shook her head helplessly. Even the formidable cast iron lady was not going to confront the Zeira Corporation's Chief of Daily Operations when he made an unannounced appearance.

"I am sure we can find something." Ellison grinned and gestured reassuringly at Helga who eased back out of sight. With the detailed knowledge gained from other visits Murch walked over to a file cabinet, opened up a middle drawer and removed a bottle of scotch. Ellison retrieved a glass from another shelf and handed it to his guest.

Pouring three fingers of liquid into the glass Murch took a deep sip before sinking into the chair in front of Ellison.

"I don't know why a man who doesn't drink keeps 18-year-old single malt scotch in his office." Murch said eyeing Ellison's tea with obvious disdain.

"I do it so the boss will come by once in a while."

"Well, it worked." Murch said as he raised the glass in salute.

Poor Matt, Ellison thought. It looks like the weight of the world has been settling on his shoulders. When they had first met, Ellison had quickly categorized Murch as just one more technocratic geek. Those darting eyes under a balding pate, a smirking nature largely lacking in social graces had all cried out IT specialist. But with the heavy responsibility for daily operations, Murch had gradually assumed a hitherto absent sense of dignity, of gravity. Somewhat to his surprise Ellison had found himself liking Murch far more than he ever expected.

"How are things going upstairs, Matt?"

Murch smiled knowingly as he waved at the files stacked on Ellison's desk.

"Same as down here, James. More work, not enough hours. I'd say we are both burning the candle at both ends and we are running out of candles."

Murch pushed his glasses back on to his forehead and loosened his tie. He wore more expensive suits now but this one appeared every bit as rumpled as the off the rack attire of earlier times. His day had clearly been as long and demanding as had Ellison's.

"Maybe you ought to give yourself a break, Matt. Take off a couple of days."

"What about you James? When was the last time you took any time off?"

"Been a while, I'll admit but I'm not the boss."

"I don't think I am either" Murch replied." I got another long e-mail today from her High... ahem... From Mrs. Weaver. There are at least three new projects she wants us to undertake."

"And she wants measurable progress on all of them yesterday." Ellison's tone was sympathetic and understanding.

"Pretty much" Murch answered." If anything, her patience seems to have gotten even shorter."

Was it her patience getting shorter or was it John's Ellison wondered. Was it Catherine Weaver or John Connor who most felt that grasp of time closing around them? The distinction really didn't matter. Whether the driving impetus came directly from John or indirectly from Weaver, it served the same goal. The war was already raging and they needed weapons.

Looking at Murch, Ellison could plainly see worry lines etched on his face that had not been there only a month earlier. He had the same fixed stare that was becoming common on the faces of many of Zeira Corporation executive officers. The candles truly were burning at both ends. Some would burn themselves out without ever knowing the real importance of their labors.

Perhaps that was the worst thing about his job, Ellison reflected. He had to watch people like Matt, people he increasingly regarded as friends drive themselves beyond the limits of endurance without telling them the truth. Matt could not know that Catherine Weaver wasn't actually a human being. The extraordinary talent Ellison had assembled in the Zeira security branch could not be told that they were really working for a man wanted for domestic terrorism. Every day, Ellison thought, every day I have to lie to them all. The hardest task had become trying to remember what lies had been told whom.

Murch and Ellison let their conversation drift away into topics unrelated to work. They eased into that casual banter used to reaffirm friendship and preserve personal ties without disclosing anything truly confidential or raising any issue of genuine substance. Man talk.

Draining the last drop of scotch from the glass, Murch pushed himself up right." I think I'll head home and see if my wife remembers what I look like. I'll see you on... What the hell day is it?"

"Tuesday, Matt" Ellison smiled comfortingly.

"I'll see you on Wednesday then. Good night James."

Ellison stared at the door to his office as it closed behind Zeira Corporation's Chief of Daily Operations. The files on his desk were forgotten as he mentally counted the seconds and minutes. Fifty-three feet down the hall to the elevator, 1 min. 10 seconds as it descended to the first floor, then approximately 2, maybe 3 minutes more. Murch was tired so he would walk slowly across the lobby to the private executive entrance on the side of the building. That exit was directly below Ellison's office, he should be there right about... now.

Ellison walked back to the window and looked down to the pavement below. The company limousine was waiting, the driver and the security guard standing together by the vehicle. Right on schedule, Murch emerged from the building. His two daily security escorts flanked him as the driver opened the passenger door. Gripping a briefcase that suggested he wasn't really finished with work for the day, Murch vanished into the limousine's interior. The driver and the guard both got into the front seat and the vehicle pulled away.

The new building would have a subterranean garage. Ellison liked that. The exposed nature of the parking lot here had always made him nervous. Sometimes you just had to play the cards as dealt. Turning away from the window he felt his cell phone vibrate in his shirt pocket. Retrieving the phone Ellison looked at the caller ID and smiled.

"Hi."... ." Yes, I know but I've been very..." " Okay, okay, I'm always busy but..."

"Are you sure you want me to do that? I could be late."

Ellison's voice softened into a low whisper." I will be there. Yes. As soon as I can. I promise."

Ellison allowed himself a brief moment to savor the call and to anticipate the promise he had made. Then he mentally filed it away, turning his mind back to the next task. Pulling a set of keys from his pants pocket, he unlocked the lower drawer on his desk. Since his departure from the FBI he had stopped carrying a weapon even though he had a permit that allowed him to do so. The pistol was never far away, however. He extracted the gun and holster from the drawer and clipped it to his belt.

"Helga." His tone was briskly certain.

Helga's head appeared instantly at the door." Yes Mr. Ellison."

"Have my car brought around."

Ellison slipped on his suit jacket. Helga was disconnecting her computer as he entered her domain.

"Put all the files on my desk in the safe and go home." Ellison did not wait for an acknowledgment as he hurried toward the hallway door. At the last moment he turned to make one last comment. " I might be a little late coming in tomorrow."

His secretary nodded and for a split second he thought he saw her smile. Ridiculous, Ellison thought. Helga never smiles.

The man with the binoculars did not see James Ellison enter his BMW and speed off the Zeira Corporation parking lot. He had already abandoned his observation post on the roof of an aging office building more than a quarter of a mile away. Ellison had never been his objective, Matt Murch was.

His name was Xavier Carranza but he liked being called Big X probably because according to the women of his hometown he wasn't big in any way. Humberto had taken him off the streets of Tijuana thinking that a nondescript little mestizo might make a good lookout and a better informer. No one really noticed Xavier so he regularly picked up street information at useful rate. Humberto's rivals in the border drug trade never really figured out how their private dealings made it so quickly to a competitor's ear.

For the last 15 hours he had occupied the nest prepared for him on the roof, urinating into an old water bottle, munching on candy bars and staring at the Zeira Corporation headquarters with his binoculars – – really nice binoculars, he hoped Humberto would let him keep them. At last, Murch came out. Nice of him to have such a shiny head that reflected the light. When his car began to move Xavier punched the number into his cell phone.

"Hola" the voice on the other hand was terse.

"He is leaving now. Only two men with him – driver and one guard."

"Excellente. Go now and wait at the motel."

A more careful observer might have gathered up the residue of his stay. That never occurred to Xavier. He had done his job and he wanted a drink or two or three. He had time before the others dealt with the bald gringo and gathered back at the motel. In another day he would be safely back in Mexico. Cleanup here would be a waste of his time. He cased his binoculars and moved stiffly to the elevator. Being an observer was harder than it looked.

Westgate Heights sat high in the hills overlooking Los Angeles. A gated community catering to those with money and a fetish for privacy, it offered the protection of its own security force as well as a well-developed link to the LAPD. At Ellison's insistence Murch had moved to the Heights the month after he assumed the position as Chief of Daily Operations. Within the confines of Westgate, Murch had the protection heads of state might envy. The challenge was to get him there.

Two different roads led up from the city each ending at one of the two gates into the upscale development. At different points both roads snaked around a sparsely settled brush covered hillside. With a steep slope on one side and an increasingly constricted shoulder on the other, room to maneuver vanished quickly. The road could be blocked by one automobile turned askew. There were only two questions . Which road would Murch use that night and when would he be there?

Humberto Estevez was confident he had gotten answers to both questions. It had actually been even easier than he expected. Posting one of his crew on each road, he had soon discovered that Murch was a man of habit. His car had come the same way every night for the last week. Even the small town Mexican city officials Humberto usually stalked knew enough to vary their routines. Not that it had ever helped them, Humberto recalled with a twisted grin.

Now with Xavier's call, the time was set. Allowing for traffic Murch's car should be here within 20 to 25 minutes. He and Carlos would block from the front and the other four would come up from behind in the SUV. Any attempt by the limousine to back away would be cut off. Six men were probably more than he needed but this was his first job in the United States and he wanted it to go smoothly. The gringo who had hired them seemed to have a lot of money. There might be other jobs and more money.

"Berto", Carlos pointed toward the goal open coaching headlights coming up the road towards the blue sedan where they were waiting. Estevez checked the Mac-10 resting on his lap before nodding to Carlos and the car began to roll forward. Carlos was a good driver with a lot of experience at this sort of work. This was going to be easy.

The outline of the limousine became clearer as the distance lessened. And right behind the limo was the SUV with the rest of the crew. Murch could not know it but he was already in the bag. Humberto had offered to bring their new employer Murch's head when they were done. The people he worked for in Mexico liked that grisly little touch but the gringo had said that a photograph would be sufficient. The man had money but no cajones.

Completely unaware of the trap about to spring, the limousine was only a few feet away. The driver undoubtedly expected the old car coming down the hill to pass by like every other bit of traffic on this narrow road. He was about to learn differently.

"Hold on!" Carlos yelled as he spun the steering wheel and simultaneously jammed his foot onto the brake. The sedan fishtailed across the road blocking both lanes and skidded towards the limousine. The driver of the larger car wasn't completely asleep since the limousine brakes squealed and it rolled to a stop just short of impact. Before the driver had the chance to reverse , the trailing SUV raced up from behind. The trap had slammed shut.

Humberto sprayed the front of the limousine with a sustained burst from his Mac 10. The bullet resistant windshield held but both the driver and the guard dove frantically for the floorboard. Humberto hadn't really expected any of the shells to penetrate but they still had an emotional impact. The occupants of the limousine knew now that they were in deep trouble.

The four men leaping out of the trailing SUV knew their work. Jaime, brandishing his two precious 45s moved to the right. Eduardo stood directly behind the blocked vehicle with his rifle resting loosely in his arms. Manuel and Arturo came up to the passenger door. Manuel had lived in San Diego for five years until the INS caught him so he spoke the best English and he could be very persuasive.

"Mr. Murch, you need to unlock the door and get out now," he said letting the force of his words settle." We don't want to hurt you if we don't have to. We just want your company to pay us to get you back. Do as we say and you'll get out of this alive."

The voice from inside the car muffled but still shaking with emotion answered. " You are lying! You want to kill me.

"No" Manuel actually sounded sympathetic. Humberto enjoyed the performance." If we hurt you , we don't get paid. So just open the door."

There was a long silence. No response came from inside the trapped car.

"Mr. Murch, we can blow the door open if we have to. You really don't want us to do that." Another long silence." Now or never Mr. Murch. Do you open up or do we get the plastique?"

"All right all right. I'll unlock the door. Please don't hurt me. Please."

Manuel looked over at Humberto who smiled broadly in appreciation. Switching to Spanish he whispered to Manuel "Pull him out. I want to see who were getting paid so much to kill."

There was a sharp metallic click as the lock on the limousine door released. With a broad grin, Manuel seized the door handle and pulled it open. If he had had the time for reflection, he might have wondered why the automatic interior dome light did not illuminate when the door swung back. But his time for reflection came to an abrupt end as the shotgun blast struck him squarely in the chest, lifting his body off the ground and hurling him backward.

Arturo had another second, a cruel allotment, since it allowed him an instance of terror but no time to react. The roar from the second shotgun was almost an echo of the first. The heavy shot shredded Arturo's , neck and head. He was dead well before his body hit the ground.

"Hijo de puta!" Humberto cursed in a feral snarl. What the shit was happening? He had run this type of operation several times and it always worked. Why was it going wrong now? Then it was going even more wrong. The front passenger door of the limousine swung open as the chatter of new gunfire added to the echoing cacophony. The driver and guard supposedly cowering in terror had rolled out of the car and swiftly dispatched Jaime. He had not even gotten off a round from his prized pistols.

"Let's get the hell out of here" Carlos screamed as he turned to run for the car. Humberto was about to follow when the searchlight beam blinded him. The converted Humvee had coasted down from somewhere back up the hill. It had come with its headlights off gliding into position while all their attention had been focused on the limousine. It had, indeed, been a perfect trap Humberto thought but they were the ones caught in it.

The voice boomed out of the darkness behind the blinding light."Drop your weapons. Get on the ground, now!"

Before Humberto could react a second searchlight stabbed out of the night. Another Humvee had come up the hill sealing off that route of escape. Two shots and a scream of pain told him that Eduardo had not complied with the shouted order. Now he never would.

"Don't shoot me, I quit." Carlos was not going to emulate Eduardo's doomed resistance. Humberto weighed his options. Fire a burst with the Mac 10 and then try to dive over the hillside. In the dark he might get away. They might miss. They might not.

"I won't say it again! Drop your weapon."

No, he thought, being willing to kill did not imply any willingness to die. Humberto threw his gun disgustedly onto the pavement and raised his hands. Within seconds he felt the hard shove of another hand in his back driving him forward and down on his knees. His options were gone.

In the unrelieved darkness of the hillside overlooking the scene of Humberto's abortive ambush, Caleb Brontë sat motionless watching the drama unfold below him. A biological creature in his position might be experiencing disappointment – an emotional response to a failed enterprise. The absence of that sensation, not to mention the unique ability of a non-biological sentient to remain patiently motionless for an indefinite period were continuing proof of the superiority of the non-biological entity. It was why they would win, Brontë concluded. Not tonight perhaps but they would still win.

He would certainly have preferred that Humberto and his companions had succeeded in dispatching the human, Murch. In their failure were valuable lessons. The forces deployed by Zeira Corporation were formidable and by human standards, clever. Dealing with them would require more specialized assets than those simpleminded street assassins he had hired no matter how vicious or experienced they might be. Those assets would be assembled, he would see to that. In the interim, he would turn his attention to other less well protected targets. Mr. Fischer's efforts must have identified a number of such individuals by now..

The BMW pulled up behind the Humvee on the lower end of the road. Brontë watched as the driver, a tall fit-looking black man emerged. The aura of authority surrounded this new arrival. The dark-clad men who had dispatched the Mexicans so effortlessly stepped quickly aside to let him pass. In another portion of his programming, an analytic capacity that operated continuously, Brontë matched the man with stored photographs. James Ellison, the head of Zeira Corporation security.

Even with no humans to deceive, Brontë maintained his life-like visage complete with biological expressions. He smiled bitterly now and reflected that Ellison was going to be a competent adversary. Perhaps he should be the next target. The possibility required further analysis.

Ellison nodded at the two security men as he walked past. Sharp and aggressive in their black clothes, Kevlar vests, helmets and automatic rifles, they were both the type of confident professionals Jake Duquesne picked to staff his personal security branch.

Duquesne commanding his men from the front as always, was standing over by the two prisoners. Humberto and Carlos were blindfolded and their hands cuffed behind their backs. Swirling around them in a purposeful pattern of movement so smooth as to appear choreographed, Zeira Corporation operatives were cleaning the site. The dead Mexicans were tossed unceremoniously into their SUV. Stray weapons were being gathered and all obvious signs of battle concealed. Duqesne's authoritative voice spurred his men along.

"Move it, move it. You have three more minutes before we roll."

"Well done, Jake" Ellison reached out to shake hands with his carefully chosen associate. Even in his early 50s Jake Duquesne still had the hard body and fierce demeanor of a former Navy seal. To Jake Duquesne protective services were always an offensive activity and never merely a matter of defense.

"Praise from the Chief is always appreciated." Duquesne responded with a fully satisfied grin.

"It doesn't look like there is much for the Chief to do here." Ellison watched as the two Mexicans were jerked to their feet and pushed brusquely toward a waiting Humvee.

"That's why you hire us isn't it?" Unlike his men, Duquesne wore neither a helmet nor a protective vest. He didn't need to Ellison thought. Bullets would probably bounce off him.

"You get them all?"

In a rare flash of emotion, Duquesne actually looked mildly offended." Of course, my people downtown picked up the lookout in a bar about ten minutes ago. Nobody got away here."

"What about Murch?"

"Sitting at home caressing his wife or his martini or both. We did the handoff in the underpass and took him straight up the back way."

"Is Elliott set to do interrogations all all of our guests?"

"Yeah", Duquesne replied," but I doubt we will get anything useful out of them."

"Why not?" Elliott asked. Like Duquesne, Elliott Shaw was the best in his line of work. The Chief of Data Acquisition understood that nuances of questioning as well is anyone in the world.

"I suspect that they don't really know much. My impression is that these guys are just drug cartel thugs. Killing a few small-town police chiefs made them think they were tough. They are really nothing more than interchangeable street scum . I wouldn't be surprised if they can't even say who hired them."

Ellison had learned to trust Jake Duquesne's instincts. It had been his men after all who picked up on the Mexicans's clumsy surveillance from the very beginning." You're probably right Jake, but give Elliott a shot anyway."

"You got it." Duquesne was brisk and all business now. What constituted a lengthy chat for him was ending.

"You might as well head out Chief. We're about finished here. By time LAPD responds to a 'shots fired' with their usual blinding speed, there won't be a sign anything has happened here."

Ellison grinned and nodded. " I want reports on my desk from you and Elliott by 10 AM tomorrow."

"No problem."

From his covert perch Brontë watched Ellison walk back to his car. Within seconds the BMW pivoted on the narrow road with the ease achieved by a skilled driver. The other vehicles began to move even before Ellison's taillights had vanished down the hill. In less than a minute the road below was dark and empty. In the far distance Brontë could discern the screech of an approaching siren but the police would almost certainly drive right by this spot oblivious to anything that might have happened here.

Caleb Brontë rose from his seated position and climbed easily up the hillside. His analysis had not changed. The operation had not been a total failure. If Zeira Corporation was really a threat to the leader's plans they had just been giving two poison pills, nervous concern and overconfidence. He needed only to decide how best to exploit both.

Ellison pulled into the driveway. The outside light over the front door was gleaming in a sign of welcome to an anticipated guest. Like the other houses on the street, 207 Wanderers Lane was solid but not lavishly built. Actual families lived in these homes and not just overpaid yuppies waiting to trade up in the next housing bubble. A family had once lived here.

As he eased his weary frame out of the car, Ellison could feel the watching eyes. These unseen observers did not disturb him, however. He knew who was concealed in the darkness because he had put them there. He also knew that his time of arrival would be precisely noted. Tonight's activity log would pass across his desk in a day or two. In the skilled professional surveillance of Zeira Corporation security he found a rare feeling of peace.

The front door opened even as his hand hung suspended in the air about to knock. In her early 40s she was not beautiful. She probably had never been conventionally pretty even in her youth . But there was a regal quality in her demeanor – a queen in exile appearance that drew him to her. In another life she might have been a ruler of Nubia, her glistening black skin shielded from the African sun by servants holding parasols as she sailed her barge on the Nile.

Ellison spread his hands in apologetic gesture." I'm sorry it is so late. I had..."

She silenced him by leaning forward and lightly pressing her lips against his. James Ellison felt the day's burdens, the never-ending demands of his position all fade away.

"Tarissa", he whispered." You know we are being observed. Security is watching the house."

She grinned, a look of youthful mischief, and wrapped her arms around his neck." Then let's give them a thrill." Ellison was aware that times he might seem stiff, even a touch pompous. At this moment, however, he dismissed all thoughts of dignity as he pulled her tightly against him. Thrills were definitely being given.

As they slowly separated, Tarissa Dyson gently took James Ellison's hand and led him inside. The security log would note the closing of the door and the extinguishing of the outside light. The time of Ellison's departure was for some reason not recorded. Even the best security sometimes gives way to discretion.


	5. The Thucydides Project Chapter 5

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"Whoo Hoo!" Sarah Connor looked up from her book as a high-pitched girlish yell – part war whoop, part teasing dare and all youthful joy cut through the serenity of the warm Provencal afternoon. The small dark-haired girl raced fearlessly down the diving board, bounced once and rolled herself into a ball as she sailed out into the pool. The slightly older red haired child dashing behind in hot pursuit let out an equally enthusiastic shout before curving her slight frame into a more conventional dive. She sliced into the water a few feet from her playmate and moments later their two heads bobbed together in the blue-green water.

Sarah shook her head with a sense of bemused resignation. It was probably useless to say anything. The fearlessness of youth rarely listened to the counsel of older, wiser heads. Still, she should say something. That was the deep end of the pool.

"Marissa"

"Yes ma'am". The little girl dog paddled to hold her place in the water as she looked up to the chair where Sarah was ensconced.

"You and Savannah slow down a little. Be a bit more careful."

"Yes ma'am, we will." Sarah could hear the repressed giggle in the child's response. Well, John always said she was the bravest little girl he had ever seen.

"We'll be careful, Aunt Sarah." Savannah gave her younger friend a measure of support. Sarah shot an accusatory look over at Catherine who sat under the umbrella on the other side of the pool, her ever present laptop open in front of her.

"Thank you, Catherine."

"For what?"

"For letting me be a nag – the bad guy."

"But you do it so very well, Sarah."

Damn that woman, Sarah thought. She is enjoying this. Sarah knew that she should let it go but with Catherine she could never fully resist one last jab.

"You should be the one to set the limits for your own daughter."

"Oh, all right." Catherine was openly smiling, fully aware that her expression would drive Sarah to the edge of distraction.

"Savannah"

"Yes mommy."

"You do exactly what your Aunt Sarah says."

Savannah looked momentarily confused. Wasn't that what she was doing? "I will."

"Happy now, Sarah?"

Sarah was on the verge of gritting her teeth when she sensed the movement on the ground beside her. The blanket had been neatly spread out with a collection of dolls, tiny horses, a stuffed bear, and a mixed assortment of balls all provided for her amusement. But now the wild sounds of play from the pool had distracted her or attracted her. The little legs were getting stronger every day letting her walk and even run with greater assurance. Displaying a quickness that caught Sarah by surprise, she was abruptly on her feet and heading for the pool, the toys on the blanket completely forgotten.

"Mitha!" The tiny voice squealed out with a volume that seemingly exceeded the capacity of the small frame to contain it. "Mitha!" She had trouble with S's. Sarah had no doubt that if she did not intervene the determined child would go headlong into the pool in pursuit of her older sister. Time was at a premium.

Sarah bounded from her chair bending forward and sweeping the brown haired toddler up into her arms. "Oh no, no you don't young lady. Allison Conner, you stay right over here with me."

For a moment Allison wiggled as if trying to escape Sarah's grasp. Then in complete surrender she turned in her embrace and looked mischievously at her grandmother. "Thara" she said letting a small hand reach up to touch Sarah's cheek. As the small fingers moved across her face Allison's smile and shiny brown eyes tightened their inexorable hold on Sarah Connor's heart. Without the slightest doubt Sarah knew that this child would own her for the rest of her life. It was not that she did not love Marissa or to her some time amazement, love Cameron. But with Allison she felt a link that was deeper than emotion. The connection binding them together felt so real that it times she thought they shared one heart.

Damn you, John Connor, she thought ruefully as she sank down cross legged on the blanket. You did this to me. You and your wife brought these children into my life just when I was finally getting tough. Now look at me – a granny with a marshmallow backbone.

There was an audible click as Catherine closed her laptop. Even in the most intimate family moments Catherine rarely quit working. Today, however, she seemed to have found a stopping point. As Sarah watched out of the corner of her eye, Catherine walked over to the pool and to Sarah's surprise slipped off her sandals before sitting down on the edge and letting her feet dangle into the water. In a whirr of red hair, Savannah paddled across the pool to Catherine side. From the faint smile on Catherine's face the two of them appeared to be sharing an intimate mother – daughter moment.

Mother and daughter. How instinctively the image had registered in her consciousness. Catherine was not a mother, Savannah was not her daughter. Hell, Catherine wasn't even human. Yet as Sarah watched the two of them together and saw that indefinable affection flow back and forth between them she found no other appropriate description. Catherine was Savannah's mother, in much the same way that Cameron was her daughter-in-law and John Henry was... was... well, at least a family friend. Sarah tried unsuccessfully to remember just when she had first walked through the Looking Glass into Wonderland.

Marissa had climbed out of the pool so Sarah seized the opportunity. Before another dash could lead to the diving board, she called out sharply." Marissa, come over here, dry off and get some more sunscreen. You're starting to glow." Marissa took one last longing look at the diving board before obediently trotting over to Sarah. It had not been a frivolous demand on Sarah's part. Even in June , the mid-afternoon sun in Provence could toast unprotected skin. Outside the encircling stone walls of the Château the lavender fields were already turning a riotous mix of purple, violet and indigo. In another month the sweet aroma would fill the day.

As she rubbed suntan lotion on Marissa shoulder, Sarah took another glance at Catherine. She had to admit, however much they feuded and took verbal potshots at each other, Catherine Weaver was an extraordinarily valuable ally. With Zeira Corporation funding and Catherine's other valuable contacts fighting a war had never been quite so luxurious an activity. The San Francisco house had been lavish and comfortable. Chateau DeBrac, where they had taken refuge after leaving California made the memory of it fade.

The original house was well over 200 years old, the classic two-story brick country Château. The weathered brick exterior, slate roof and shuttered windows would have appealed to Cézanne. They still would. Subsequent owners had focused all renovations on the interior. The modern conveniences now inside the house let the 21th century wear the discrete disguise of a more elegant age. To the casual eye it would not appear that the Château DeBrac had been modified or that it was now a fortress. Even Sarah had been forced to concede that Catherine Weaver routinely emphasized the "safe" in safe houses.

The Château sat squarely in the middle of nearly 40 hectares with only one private road leading to the front gate. None but the most astute observer would have seen the well concealed electrified lines atop the stone walls or the alarms and motion sensors scattered throughout the grounds. The multiple defense mechanisms rendered any potential intruder's hope of a surprise entry most unlikely. It imparted a strong sense of security but Sarah was intensely aware that no place was ever truly safe.

"May I go now, Sarah?" Dark eyes flashed with anticipation. In her mind she was already back on the diving board. Sarah was about to acquiesce when she heard the two short beeps from Catherine's laptop. Catherine immediately rose from her seated position and opened her computer. "Movement on the access road. A car just turned in." Catherine's voice was flatly devoid of emotion. Sarah made quick eye contact and they nodded in unspoken agreement.

"Marissa, why don't you take your sister over and let her splash in the shallow end?" Sarah had tried to maintain a lightly casual tone but Marissa's expression showed a quick understanding. Sarah always suspected that behind those delicate Hispanic features Marissa had an old soul. She had grasped Sarah's real meaning.

"Come on Ally", she said taking Allison by the hand. Back at the pool Savannah received a similar request from Catherine. She also moved to the far end of the pool.

Sarah reached into the beach bag sitting by her chair and felt the comforting sensation of cold metal as her hand closed around the pistol. Pulling the Glock from her bag, she turned away from the pool holding the gun in front of her to spare young eyes the sight of the deadly weapon. Catherine had reached her side allowing the two of them to walk shoulder to shoulder down the brick walkway toward the ornate iron gate at the front of the estate. Catherine was not carrying a weapon but, of course, she did not need one. Catherine was a weapon.

The two of them had almost reached the only access point in the protecting wall when Sarah heard the rhythmic tones emerging from the front of Catherine's blouse. Withdrawing the cell phone from her pocket Catherine spoke quickly and succinctly. "Yes. Yes. I see. Very well, thank you John Henry."

Sarah turned inquisitively toward Catherine who was displaying her usual enigmatic smile. "John Henry says it's a 2010 Mercedes E class sedan, two occupants, male and female. It is John and Cameron."

Sarah clicked on the Glock's safety and smiled happily. "They are home."

"Isn't that what I just said?"

Cameron opened the glove compartment and took out the remote switch. The code was simple, click, two beats click click, one beat, click. With the last snap the gates swung open. She smiled as she heard John's long contented sigh. "You certainly sound happy to be home."

"Right now, I think that home is the second most perfect word in the English language."

The Mercedes rolled through the gates that immediately swung closed behind them. Cameron returned the remote switch to its place in the glove compartment. Looking at John as he pulled the car into the Château's small parking area she inquired in her most innocently disingenuous tone." And what is the most perfect word?"

John leaned over, put his hand on the back of her head and kissed her. "I would say it's a tie between Cameron and wife."

"There are times, John Connor, what you truly exceed all the bounds of rational understanding." The words were severe, their loving expression was not.

"I know," John responded. "I think that's one of my most endearing qualities."

They were kissing again when an impatient voice rang out from beside the car. "Would you two please stop that. There are people waiting out here."

John grinned widely at Sarah as he emerged from the Mercedes. "Gee mom, you're not going to shoot your son are you? Just for kissing his wife?"

Sarah glanced down at her right hand almost surprised to see that the gun was still there. Some things that other people might find unusual or even disturbing were instinctive in the Connor family. She slipped the gun into the waist band of her skirt as she reached out to embrace her son.

Catherine stood patiently waiting as the reunion ritual was observed. Sarah always overreacted. John and Cameron had only been gone two days. There had been much longer trips since Captain Connor and his wife had revived and polished the Alexander Maestro and Alexis Fragale personas they had first developed back in San Francisco. They had taken those characters to a variety of locations – London, Antwerp twice, St. Petersburg, always returning safely and with Connor's objectives accomplished. The most recent excursion had only been to Marseille, less than four hours away. Sarah acted as if she hadn't seen them for a month. She always overreacted.

Catherine nodded in greeting as John stepped away from Sarah leaving her to speak to Cameron, while he approached her. From the raw redness on his knuckles , the bruise over his right eye ,the cut on his neck and the disheveled condition of the expensive clothes he wore as the fictional scion of a super-rich Argentine family it appeared that events in Marseille had taken a challenging turn. Glancing over at Cameron who was being affectionately embraced by her mother-in-law, Catherine noted the rips in her elegant dress and the mussed condition of her hair with long brown locks dangling haphazardly alongside her face. Perhaps Sarah wasn't overreacting after all.

"Captain Connor, welcome home."

Before answering, John leaned over and kissed her cheek. Why did he always do that?, Catherine wondered. What was it about these unnecessary spontaneous displays of affection that humans enjoyed so much? More importantly, why did she like it and why did it not surprise her when he did it?

"Good to be back. Everything go all right while we were away?"

"Quite well. We have received a number of her reports from California you will wish to review. John Henry has also developed a revised strategic analysis…" Catherine stopped in mid-phrase. That wasn't what he was asking about. "Your daughters are fine John. Along with Savannah they have been enjoying the pool, doing their ballet exercises, and waiting impatiently for you and Cameron to return."

From the way his smile broadened Catherine knew that she had belatedly answered the proper question. In one respect John Connor appeared to gain a perceptible physical maturity with every passing day but any mention of his daughters seem to summon back all the infectious glow of carefree youth. Human psychology could be a mystifying subject – one that she had not presumed to have mastered. But if forced to draw conclusion, she believed that Captain Connor's remarkable emotional strength relied heavily on two little girls and on the two women who had just joined him, each taking one of his arms.

"Did everything go all right in Marseille?" Sarah asked casually. He would be suspicious if she didn't ask anything. Now he would have his chance to try to mislead her. They had the mother – son gavotte down pat.

"Right according to plan. A couple of minor glitches but Cameron and I dealt with that without too much trouble."

"What kind of glitches?" Sarah asked.

"Minor stuff", John said in a dismissive tone." The important thing is that Maestro Enterprises now owns Clezot Shipping. We have the beginnings of our Mediterranean distribution organization. Time for the next case."

Sarah heard the unmistakable sound of discussion closing. "Come on," John said, the seriousness lost from his voice. "I'll get the luggage later. I want to see my girls now."

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[EDITORS' NOTE. Despite the universal praise accorded General Connor's multi volume work, scholars have commented upon certain apparent omissions in the original draft. More specifically, it has been noted that General Connor's well documented modesty evidently led him to gloss over certain events, particularly those incidents that reflected on the extent of his personal heroism. To address these omissions, the present editors have relied upon the extensive personal journal maintained by General Connor's wife, Cameron and the recently recorded recollections of Col. John W Henry, retired, the former Chief of Resistance Intelligence. The editors are confident that the additional material has enhanced the historical value of Freedom's War. Accordingly, the account of events occurring in Marseille on June 17, 2011 are more detailed than those described in previous versions of this work.]

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Marseille had cleaned up its act somewhat from the gritty French Connection days of the 1970s but it was still a pulsating and frenetic place. The city was filled with a cultural and social blend of humanity that reflected the full range of a cosmopolitan Mediterranean world. On its waterfronts commerce, legal and illegal still generated fortunes and swept them away just as quickly. Most modern day commercial shipping used the large new port to the north but the historical waterfront surrounded by its horseshoe shaped walkway continued to draw a significant amount of unconventional business.

John parked the Mercedes near the Café Memoz. With the lowest parking fines in France and a somewhat tolerant municipal attitude toward creative parking it had been relatively easy to find or make a place for the car. As he opened the car door for Cameron, John realized once again that clinging to the Maestro/ Fragale aliases this long might not be the best idea. But watching Cameron do her version of Alexis was just too much fun for him to give up. In her tightly clinging black silk dress ,ultra high heels and tightly bound ballet dancer hairstyle, she could create an expression of pampered disdain that would shatter the heart of any would-be admirer.

Of course he wasn't bad either. As befitting a wealthy pampered Argentine playboy, he dressed with a mixture of elegance and purpose. The designer slacks, well tailored jacket, gold Rolex watch and dark leather attaché case all proclaimed money on the move. Cameron had painstakingly tutored him in language and inflection so that he could now affect a kind of vaguely indefinable foreign accent – just enough to confuse the listener.

As they crossed a busy street toward the Café, Cameron elicited number of admiring whistles, shouts and physically unlikely propositions. Well into the character now she kept her chin up utterly ignoring the cries of the hoi polloi."Cameron, if it gets physical in there today try to be a bit more discreet in how you deal with it. I'd rather not have any Supergirl rumors floating around Marseille."

Cameron turned her head, looked at him and sniffed disdainfully. "Why John, I am always discreet."

"Yeah right" John muttered vividly recalling a London thug flying head first through a window into the Thames and two St. Petersburg gun men nursing broken arms.

Despite the name, Café Memoz was more of an old style waterfront bar than a restaurant. The Clezot family had actually begun business with the Café and then opened the shipping line from an office in an upstairs room. The company headquarters was still there. Of course, there wasn't much to the shipping line – three aging freighters, five fishing boats, and a motor driven launch to get around the harbor. But it would do. John was convinced it would be sufficient for his purposes.

They were waiting at a table when John and Cameron walked in. Despite the sudden shift from bright sun to a shadowy interior, John kept his sunglasses on. Image was part of character. Crossing the room he noticed that neither stood to greet them. Introductions were no longer necessary but the relationship was not yet friendly. The old man still had an expression of deeply suspicious hostility while the woman merely looked uncertain and perhaps even a little frightened. Understandable, John thought. Two months ago she was a kindergarten teacher in Lyon who had never expected to have any part in her family's businesses or their problems.

With an exaggerated flourish John pulled out the chair for Cameron who accepted the favor with an attitude of one fully accustomed to such deference. John barely suppressed the grin as he took up the seat next to her.

"So," he said without further ceremony." Have you decided Mademoiselle Clezot? Are you prepared to accept my offer?"

John was looking at the woman but the elderly man charged in. "Why don't you explain, Monsieur Maestro, why my niece should sell you 51% of her company, of her inheritance from her father?"

"Because that's the only way she gets to keep any part of it. She either joins with me or Guy Dussant takes it all. One Hundred percent of nothing is nothing, Monsieur Hebert."

Cameron heard the sharp snap in John's voice and more as well. She heard the regret. The slightest touch of her hand to a person's neck allowed her sensors to measure all aspects of human emotion. But reading John did not require touch. Their link easily surpassed all the limits of the physical world. She knew he disliked being brusque with Paul Hebert , that he genuinely liked the older man, but events did not always allow time for polite niceties.

It was a pity they had to move so quickly, Cameron thought. The old gentleman was only trying to be protective. He clearly loved the woman he called his niece even though she was only a cousin and a distant one at that. Now in his 70s, Paul Hebert still had a cord like toughness and a fierce visage acquired through two tours of duty in the Legion. He had honed that toughness in numerous battles on the Marseille waterfront where he worked for Madeleine Clezot's father for more years than he could remember. Cameron could tell that it bothered him deeply that he was no longer physically able to protect his niece from the circling vultures and from John's expression she knew he hated to force the reality of the situation onto the old man.

"Uncle Paul" Madeleine raised her hand. "Let me talk to Monsieur Maestro."

John removed his sunglasses and waited as she tried to organize her words. According to John Henry's research ,which was always correct, she had never anticipated that she would have any role in her father's business. All that was supposed to be her brother Eric's responsibility. Eric's recent death in a decidedly suspicious car accident had thrust a responsibility onto her she had never wanted.

"Monsieur, suppose I tell you that Dussant has offered me a six-month extension on the loan?"

John or Alexander Maestro chuckled bitterly." How kind of him. At what interest? How many additional fees?" He leaned on the table and let his stare bore Madeleine Clezot. "Madeleine, your brother borrowed €150,000 from Guy Dussant. What is the debt up to now? 210,000, €220,000?"

"Two hundred ten", Madeleine softly replied.

Paul Hebert started to twitch with anger. "How do you know…?"

John made a curt dismissive gesture. "I know. That is all that matters. Madeleine, you are too intelligent not to understand this. You either sell controlling interest to me and let me deal with Dussant or in less than a year he'll own it all." Allowing the harsh impact of his words to sink into Madeleine Clezot and her uncle, John turned to Cameron. "Alexis" he said and Cameron removed two documents from a file folder she had placed on the table. He slid them across to Madeleine. "The first one transfers 51% of Clezot Shipping to Maestro Enterprises, the second employs you as president of the new company and your uncle as special advisor."

Before Madeleine could respond, the sound of shouting and curses announced the arrival of a group of men who roughly pushed past a protesting bar employee at the front door. The man in the lead was big, at least 6 feet tall and muscularly built. Short cropped brown hair ,an angled square cut face with eyes that looked too small for their setting, dark pinpoints in a sea of flesh all combined to create an image of latent violence. The four men who followed him wearing poorly cut cheap suits with ominous bulges in their jackets completed the picture. John recognized the face from John Henry's file – Guy Dussant your friendly neighborhood loan shark and protection merchant.

John pulled the fountain pen from his inside jacket pocket. Holding it out to Madeleine his voice was even but quietly insistent. "Time to decide Madeleine. Now or never."

She looked at Dussant and his henchmen storming towards them. Then grabbing the pen she scratched her name is on both documents. John nodded approvingly as she slid them back to him. Turning his head to Cameron he silently mouthed the word, "Showtime".

Cameron moved her chair a bit to the right before crossing her legs causing the silk dress to slide well up her thighs. That ought to distract the heterosexuals in the crowd John thought.

Without being asked Dussant pulled up a chair and sat down ignoring Madeleine and her uncle. Instead he focused a fierce stare on John while his four bodyguards spread out behind him. In the background the squeaky tones of a record playing on an aging American jukebox contributed to the film noir atmosphere. Three of Dussant's men matched their boss's glare at John. The one on the far end, however, clearly found Cameron's legs more interesting.

"Your men hover well, Dussant."

The Frenchman's already angry face darkened further. "You know me. Who the hell are you?"

"My name is Alexander Maestro." Gesturing toward Cameron, he continued. "My Administrative assistant, Ms. Alexis Fragale."

"What are you doing here, Maestro?" Dussant was accustomed to frightening people, to intimidating all that he encountered. He was surprised when he failed.

"I don't believe that is any of your affair." John's voice was calmly and contemptuously mocking. Before Dussant could snap out a response the thug so obviously enthralled with Cameron's legs leaned over and whispered into his employer's ear. From the change in Dussant's expression it appeared that he was amused."

"My associate, Marcus would like to dance with your… Assistant." Dussant sarcastically emphasized the last word. "Unless you object, of course."

John leaned back in his chair letting a broad and knowing grin light up his face. A little atavistic role-play ,he thought. See if the man would try to protect his woman. Show him that he couldn't and humiliate him. "That's up to Alexis." Without a word, Cameron rose her chair and walked toward the small open floor space. The leering gunman stumbled after her. The odds were still tough but 5 to 1 was now 4 to 1.

Dussant picked up the interrupted thread of his conversation. "This place is my business." For the first time he shot what he obviously believed to be an intimidating stare at Madeleine. "Everything that goes on here is my business."

"Not anymore", John said calmly. "I own controlling interest in Clezot Shipping now. Your involvement here is over."

As Dussant struggled to respond to a type of casual resistance he had not encountered in years John glanced out at the improvised dance floor. Watching Cameron's spins and pivots he could tell that she was deliberately taunting the big man's clumsy attempts to display his physical prowess.

Dussant tried to reach back to his days as a street enforcer for his drug dealing father. Leaning on the table he snarled John. "Like shit it's over. These people owe me money. If anyone else is going to run this place it will be me."

The wild scream part pain, part disbelief, and complete dismay broke the mood. All heads turned to see the man who had been dancing with Cameron go somersaulting across the floor, crashing through an empty table and ending up in a crumpled pile against the far wall. With her chin lifted, her posture regally erect, Cameron walked back to the table and sat down in her chair. A stunned silence settled on the group as Dussant and his men stared at her. "He put his hands on my hips. I told him not to do that. I told him twice."

John reached up to rub his chin and cover the smile he couldn't quite suppress. So much for discretion. One of Dussant's men walked over to check on his fallen associate. The odds changed again three to two and one of the two was Cameron. Time to finish this. John suddenly rose to his feet staring disdainfully down at Dussant. Caught off guard the Frenchman struggled to stand, trying to equalize the shifting representations of power.

"I suggest that you listen to this very carefully. Mademoiselle Clezot's brother borrowed €150,000 from you. In this attaché case there is €200,000." John shoved the case toward Dussant as dismissively as if it were a single chip on a high stakes gambling table. "That's more than a fair return on your loan. You should pick it up, turn around and walk out. "John leaned forward closing the space between himself and the big Frenchman. His voice contained a tone of cold certainty. "You should do that now."

"You don't give orders to me you son of a…" Dussant's face had turned a splotchy red with fury. He reached out to grab the lapels of John's jacket with both hands. His two remaining men were staring at John with a mixture of disbelief and anticipation. Across the room, the disoriented dancer was being helped to his feet by the remaining thug. A snapshot of that moment would have frozen the scene seconds before Guy Dussant taught this imbecile who really ran this stretch of the Marseille waterfront. Pictures can be illusions.

John's left arm jerked upward forcing Dussant's hands off his jacket. Simultaneously he threw a crashing right fist that smashed into his mouth and nose. As the big man staggered backward his bodyguards started toward John. With the practiced grace of an acrobat Cameron rested both her hands on the table and flipped herself across it landing gracefully behind the men who had foolishly ignored her. They paid for their mistake when she lifted her leg and kicked the one nearest her in the back. The force of the blow propelled him into his companion driving both of them across the room.

As John spun around the table moving in Dussant's direction the oafish dancer's companion dropped his dazed friend back onto the floor as he rushed forward. Almost as an afterthought, John picked up a chair and threw it at him. The unexpected collision with flying furniture removed the man temporarily from the fight. The brawl settled quickly into two segments. John and Dussant traded blows in the middle of the room while the two men Cameron had kicked into the wall were storming back in her direction. The first she evaded with a contemptuous ease letting his momentum carry him sprawling into the table where they had just been sitting. As he tried to get up, Paul Hebert, who had been watching the fight develop with unrestrained pleasure, seized an empty wine bottle which he smashed across the man's head. Madeleine Clezot looked at her aged uncle with complete amazement. Then she smiled.

The second man managed to grasp the shoulders of Cameron's dress. Sometimes she found John's request that she disguise her strength frustratingly irrational. It only prolonged conflict unnecessarily. It would be so easy just to kill this man. John wanted subtlety so that's what he would get. Cameron twirled, a move somewhere between a ballet pirouette and a martial arts response to an attack. In the same moment she twisted the man's arm behind his back. Glancing over to see that John was engaged with Dussant she snapped two of his fingers. He screamed in agony as she shoved him reeling toward the bar. Subtlety was a concept open to interpretation.

John was hardly a classically trained boxer but he had natural skills and he was quick. Despite his edge in bulk and height, Dussant has spent too long allowing other men to do his fighting. He swung wildly, telegraphed his punches and failed to cover up. Soon his face was bleeding from multiple cuts and his breath was becoming labored.

Cameron could see that Dussant had landed a few blows of his own but each time he did so, John simply backed away, grinned broadly and waded back in. He had that wild battle light in his eyes now. It did not please her to see that expression. When that fire ignited in his eyes the man she loved lost all concern for his own safety.

The crunch of cartilage in his nose breaking a second time, the salty taste of blood in his mouth finally drove Dussant into a blind fury. He reached into his pocket pulling out the switchblade he carried mostly as a souvenir of his younger days. With a click of the switch he prepared to put it back into use. At the same time the man John had struck with the flying chair reached inside his jacket fumbling for his pistol. Enough subtlety, Cameron thought. This was getting out of hand. Lifting her skirt high up her thigh she drew her gun from its hiding place.

"Stop!" She shouted. The steely resolve in one word froze the room. Dussant's henchman withdrew his hand from inside his jacket and slowly raised both hands over his head. Still gripping the switchblade, Dussant looked back and forth, first at Cameron then in a hate filled stare at John and finally back at Cameron's gun. No one doubted that she was prepared to shoot anyone who moved. Then to her dismay, John grinned. That same wild expression of battle joined but unresolved. He wasn't finished yet.

"Keep everyone else out of it, Alexis. Monsieur Dussant and I still have to settle a few things." Staying in character Cameron affected an almost bored tone of disinterested equanimity. "Alexander, don't you think…?" But John had already turned away. He wasn't listening to her now. He sneered contemptuously at Dussant.

"Come on Dussant. She won't interfere. You aren't ready to quit, are you?" Dussant spit a mouthful of blood on the floor as he looked uncertainly at Cameron's pistol. "Come on you gutless son of a bitch," John snarled. "Things a lot worse than you have tried to cut me up. Show me what you can do or do you just fight women and old men?"

The last taunt galvanized the Frenchman into action. Roaring in a blind rage, he raced towards John stabbing wildly with the knife. Like a bullfighter invading the horns of a charging bull, John sidestepped and landed a hard blow in Dussant's ribs as he stumbled past. Dussant turned and tried again this time waving the blade frantically from side to side. Once more, John backed away at the last second, delivering three quick punches to his opponent's battered face.

Cameron called on all of her cyborg nature to remain outwardly calm. Internally she fought to control an emotional whirlpool. If it were possible for it to happen he was going to drive her crazy. If she didn't love him so much she would be tempted just to shoot him herself.

It might have been overconfidence on John's part or just random luck, but as Dussant made another charge, a wild swing let the point of his knife skip across the surface of John's neck. When she saw the flash of red appear, just a scratch really, Cameron's resolve broke. For the first time she fell completely out of character.

"John! That is enough!"

Responding to his name as well as the unmistakable passion in her voice he looked at her and nodded reassuringly. On Dussant's next charge he seized the man's wrist and kicked him in the leg. The knife fell to the floor as Dussant collapsed into a moaning heap. John pulled the **.** 38 from his ankle holster. He knelt, slamming his knee into the fallen loan shark's stomach. As he gasped in pain, John shoved the muzzle of the pistol into his mouth.

"I believe we have had enough discussion so now I'm going to tell you what's going to happen. That will be all right with you won't it?." Dussant tried to speak but John jammed the gun further into his mouth. "Don't talk just nod. Clezot Shipping belongs to me now. Mademoiselle Clezot is going to operate it for me. You're going to pick up the money I'm giving you to pay her family's debt and walk away. If you ever come back, if anyone connected to you threatens her or tries to interfere with my business, I'll hunt you down and kill you. Do you understand me?"

A beaten Guy Dussant nodded

"Good. Now get up and get the hell out of here."

As Dussant and his thoroughly chastened associates staggered out the door, Madeleine Clezot and her uncle moved to John's side. "You know Monsieur Maestro I believe my niece may have made the right decision entering into an agreement with you." John looked at the tough old street fighter and held out his hand. "I'm glad you think so Monsieur Hebert. By the way I want you to register a new name for the business."

"You want to call it Maestro Shipping?"

"No" John said putting his hand on the old man shoulder. Call it New Legion Shipping."

As he slid behind the wheel of the Mercedes, John could feel Cameron's piercing glare. "Okay Cameron, I know. You don't have to tell me. I got a little carried away in there."

"A little?" Cameron sounded incredulous.

"All right, a lot. But I won't let it happen again."

Cameron smiled now, a wan expression of resignation. "Yes you will. At least I will be there to keep you from killing yourself."

John leaned forward to let his lips lightly brushed against hers. "That's all I could ever ask."

Cameron's expression changed again. A touch of pleading crept into her voice. "John may we go home now?"

"Yes my love. We are done here. If I can figure out the traffic in this crazy city we should be home with the girls in about three hours."

Cameron opened the glove compartment and removed a small leather bag. Opening the drawstrings she extracted a diamond ring, her wedding ring. Alexis Fragale was not married. Cameron Connor most assuredly was. She slipped on her ring before withdrawing plain gold band from the bag. "Hold out your hand John." With a broad smile John extended his left hand to let Cameron slide his wedding band back into place. "Now let us please go home." Cameron whispered.

The squeals of childish delight that greeted them sounded as sweet as the most ethereally conceived music. "Mommy! Daddy!" Marissa and Savannah each held hold of one of Allison's hands swinging her between them as they raced for John and Cameron. Both were kneeling with their arms outstretched ready to greet the surge of youthful adoration.

Sarah had stopped beside Catherine a few feet away. It was so very beautiful, she thought as she watched her son and her daughter-in-law fill their arms with laughing, loving little girls. This should be their life, she thought. This is really all John and Cameron want. To be with these children, to care for them and to help them grow into womanhood. It was a lovely sight and yet there was an inescapable sadness present. It would never be the gentle life they wanted. It could never be that life. As fervently as she wished that she could spare them the burdens, Sarah knew John and Cameron would have to raise their family in a world far more dangerous than they would have wished. Sarah was also certain that if anyone could deal with it, her son and the woman he loved could.


	6. Chapter 6

Provence, France June 22, 2011  
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"It's like a knife fight in a dark room, John Henry. You know the other man is there. You can sense him. You can almost feel him. But you can't see him." John closed the cover on the latest report from James Ellison with a weary sigh.

Ever supportive, John Henry looked up from the data he was studying on multiple computer screens and smiled. "That may be true John but in this case your opponent can not see you either."

John rose from his chair at the conference table and walked over to John Henry's workstation. "I am not even certain that is correct John Henry. The attempt on Matt Murch's life suggests that someone out there has seen something."

"Zeira Corporation has always been a target John. My brother evidently perceived its threat long ago. This was likely just the latest of a series of attacks."

"This one feels different. Brutal but improvised. It's like someone is making it up as they go along."

John Henry turned his swivel chair away from the computer screens. He looked at John with an expression of renewed respect. Intuition, that unquantifiable human ability to achieve insight without data was one of John Connor's greatest strengths. While no human would ever achieve his capacity for assimilating and analyzing information, John Henry was increasingly convinced that he would never possess the instinctual vision John exhibited. He could see patterns when no one else did.

"It is possible John that we are experiencing the unexpected consequences of our own success. When you decapitated my brother’s organization, killed his leaders and scattered his human assets, you forced him to rebuild in a less structured and even more covert fashion. My brother now knows he must deal with a very dangerous opponent."

Without answering John turned and paced down the long tunnel toward the weapon racks. Back in San Francisco the headquarters room had begun its existence as a Cold War relic – a bomb shelter constructed by the rich and paranoid. Here at Château DeBrac, the origin of John Henry's latest lair carried a more romantically heroic mystique. When France fell to the Nazis, the Rippon family who lived here then had resolved that none of their extensive wine collection would ever quench the thirst of a German. Baron Charles Rippon had come up with the idea of hiding the wine in the last place anyone would expect to find it – in the wine cellar.

Workers at the estate had quickly excavated a long tunnel that extended the existing cellar another 50 feet. In that newly created space concealed behind a set of heavy wooden storage shelves, the Rippons concealed their beloved collection of Rhone and Burgundy wines. To confuse the Nazis further, the Baron filled all the vacated spaces with cheap Beaujolais – confident that a beer drinking German would never see through the stratagem. Remarkably none did. After the war, the family, now tragically without the Baron who had died as a member of the French resistance, moved their wine back to its old portion of the cellar. The secret addition was largely forgotten until Catherine acquired the property.

Catherine's remodeling had retained the long cylindrical shape but hardened it while installing multiple ventilation, power and water systems. The entrance once protected only by a piece of solid wood furniture was now secured behind double steel doors. With well disguised lethal countermeasures in place, the doorway posed a near insurmountable barrier to anyone foolish enough to attempt a forceful entry.

Inside this modern bunker, John Henry's organizational system had placed his computer stations and conference area at the front leaving the furthest reaches of the tunnel to store their extensive arsenal. Reaching that area John picked up one of the latest additions. The highly experimental Pulsar, phase rifle had been developed by the renowned Belgian weapons company Narvan Fabrique d’Armes. The weapon had been manufactured under a written agreement so complex that a battalion of New York lawyers could not have unraveled it or traced it back to Zeira Corporation.

Cradling the hefty rifle in his arms, John felt a kind of perverse satisfaction. It wasn't quite the standard issue plasma rifle his men had carried when he commanded company J of the Resistance but it was getting there. Far too complex, too expensive and perhaps even more lethal than would be required by a conventional army, it would equalize any battle between metal and human. John knew that if it were ever used in great numbers it would mean that his efforts to forestall Skynet had failed. Yet in the recesses of his mind he admitted, almost shamefully, to himself that at least he understood that type of war. He could fight that conflict with a confidence he could not quite achieve in this never-ending struggle with the enemy who hid in that dark room.

Get a grip Connor! John mentally seized himself by his lapels and shook. You fight when and where you must and with whatever weapons you have. Get your mind back in the game!

He replaced the rifle in its place on the rack. Watching him from his computer station, John Henry saw the change in posture. The renewed determination in John's expression was as clear as the image on the computer screens. John Henry had become accustomed to Captain Connor's occasional descents into reverie – times when a mood of near clinical depression seemed to settle onto him. With the exception of Cameron, John Henry suspected that no one else ever saw this side of John Connor. He would not allow it. Each time the black mood appeared, John was somehow able to fling it away. Emerging with an ever stronger attitude, a steely personal commitment that grew harder each time.

He was standing at John Henry's side now. "I don't know how powerful we are, but we damned well are the opposition." For the first time John took notice of the mass of information flowing across the multiple screens on John Henry's computers." While I've been wallowing in reports you have obviously been busy. What do you have going on here?"

John Henry pointed at each of the glowing screens in turn. "Wire fraud, bank fraud, money laundering, World of War Craft." John was nodding approval until the impact of the last words registered.

He shot a sharp glance at John Henry whose placid expression dissolved into a mischievous smile.

"Joke."

John's attempt to preserve a stern expression failed as he dissolved into laughter shaking his head in bemused resignation. The boundless intellect encompassed within his artificial intelligence meant the John Henry was capable of maintaining multiple lines of thought simultaneously. The sight and sound of John Connor's unrestrained amusement opened a new conceptual path. His brother, Skynet or whatever name he gave himself, sought power, absolute dominance and yet John Henry realized that he had just exercised a power his brother would never have, would never even comprehend. He had made John Connor laugh. He had lifted an emotional weight and made a human being happy. Perhaps his brother would regard that ability as irrelevant but to John Henry it was a skill of incalculable value.

"Actually John, it is a stock manipulation program that gives us maximum value on the Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Tokyo exchanges."

Waving his hand at the screens John chuckled as he asked" And all of this is completely illegal?" John Henry looked surprised by the question. " Of course. But your plans require significant funding and we do not always have time to adhere to statutory niceties." John laughed again. "No we don't. Oh John Henry, even if we are able to stop your brother, we may all end up in jail someday." John Henry's mischievous grin returned. "Only if they catch us John."

John turned back to the table where the reports he had been studying were spread out. He was about to sit back down when John Henry interposed an objection." If I may suggest John, you have been at that for hours now. It is almost noon. Why don't you allow yourself a break? Go upstairs and have lunch with your family."

"I think that sounds like a very good idea."

As he passed through the actual wine cellar John stopped and extracted a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape from one of the large racks. He had not actually been much of a wine drinker until they arrived in Provence. But after tasting one of the local vintages he had immediately decided that to live in a place that produced such a miraculous beverage and not enjoy it would be a sin.

The stairs from the cellar entered the main house just off the dining room. The table was already set for lunch and he was about to go to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew when he heard the raised female voices.

"I was not being critical." Sarah Connor's voice was snappishly defensive. "I was just commenting that it seems as if you are adding too many tomatoes."

From her response it did not sound as if Catherine had been mollified. "What does a woman whose primary culinary achievement consists of burnt pancakes know about the proper recipe for bouillabaisse?"

"I know about taste." Sarah's response had gained volume." Do you? Can you actually taste anything?"

"Of course I can, Sarah. You know better than that. If I couldn't taste how would I know that you burn your pancakes?"

John set the wine bottle on the table and sought an immediate avenue for retreat. He was reasonably sure they would not try to kill each other but at any moment they might come bursting out of the kitchen in search of someone to referee their latest dispute. He emphatically did not want to be present if that happened.

Cameron’s ballet studio in the San Francisco house had been an impromptu creation. Catherine had brought the mirrors and the barre into the gymnasium when she recognized Savannah’s enthusiasm for the new activity. Being Catherine, she had been more thorough in the Chateau. One of the side sitting rooms had been cleared out and the far wall completely covered with mirrors. A more stable barre ran the length of the room while subtle overhead lighting joined with an elaborate musical sound system to create an artistic refuge from a dangerous world. Yes, Catherine was thorough.

As he walked down the hall John heard the music even before he reached the studio. Cameron liked Chopin, regularly using the études when teaching. Although his musical taste usually ran toward much less sophisticated fare, John had discovered an unexpected satisfaction in the rhythmic introspection of the piano in these pieces. Or perhaps that music had simply become inextricably intertwined with his image of Cameron’s dancing.

Today he stopped in the doorway watching as she demonstrated a simplified arabesque to Savannah and Marissa who were sitting cross legged on the floor. He knew it was called an arabesque only because she had once told him. The two older girls were watching in rapt attention while on the other side of the room Allison's interest was focused on the long blonde hair of her favorite doll.

In a flash a painful memory, he saw another little girl playing on a dirty cement floor with the broken remnants of her doll. The doll’s carved wooden head – a crude homemade replacement for the long lost original had accidentally rolled into an old drain. John could still visualize the tears of gratitude on her grime covered little face when he returned the head to her. Her name had been Sarah and she was dead now. She was dead along with all the others the Skynet had slaughtered in that time. But he remembered her. He would always remember her. He would protect his daughters and Savannah from a similar fate as long as he had breath in his body.

"Now let's see you both try it." Cameron's voice brought him back to the present. His smile returned as Marissa and Savannah each moved into position, lifting their legs and extending their arms as Cameron had illustrated. She moved beside them gently adjusting their positions, shifting their hands slightly while whispering soft words of encouragement.

John saw the surprising reflection in the mirror before he turned his head back toward Allison. She wasn't even two yet so dance lessons had not been as enticing to her as other pursuits. Today she suddenly seemed fascinated by the movements Cameron was demonstrating. To John's amazement the little girl got to her feet and did an imitation of the arabesque. It wasn't perfect, she only held it for a few seconds before slipping back to the floor and picking up her doll, but the sight of this miniature Cameron following her mother's example caused his heart to race.

"Excuse me, ladies. I hate to interrupt but I am here to escort you all to lunch." Giggling in best friend fashion Marissa and Savannah skipped away together for the dining room while Cameron knelt to pick up Allison. She was perfectly capable of walking now but Cameron still liked to carry her. From the smile on her little face was obvious that Allison liked being carried especially by Cameron or by Sarah.

When they reached him in the doorway, John leaned over and whispered in a conspiratorial fashion. "Cameron, did you see her?"

"Yes I did, John." Cameron had anticipated the question." She did the movement." Cameron brushed back her daughter’s hair." She's going to be a dancer."

"Just like her mother" John whispered as he put his arm around Cameron's waist.

 

Los Angeles, California, June 22, 2011  
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With each stroke of the brush her long black hair glittered and gleamed, the light from the bedroom lamp illuminating each shining strand. In the later stages of her pregnancy she had worn it bound up, easier to care for she had claimed. Now two months after Matteo's birth she was wearing it loose again, an ebony waterfall that rolled across her shoulders and down her back.

Her face was turned away from him looking into the mirror judging the progress of the brush but he knew she was watching his reflection. He could feel her eyes on him, sense the unspoken adoration in her gaze. She began to hum a low gentle rhythm, the lullaby she had sung to Matteo before he drifted away into an infant’s innocent slumber. If he listened carefully he could hear the faint sound of his son's breathing coming from the bassinet beside their bed.

This was not the life he had ever envisioned , or expected from the day he had first taken up the gun. Men like him were not supposed to experience love or family. He was, after all, Emilio Garza the pitiless enforcer, the chillingly cold assassin whose dark Indian eyes had once been compared to those of a shark. His façade, the elaborately polite, impeccably dressed, emotionally impassive predator of the urban jungle had been carefully crafted. He had created his own image of Emilio Garza as a suit of armor that blocked out the world and shielded him from the risks caused by caring.

 

She had burst through that armor with a speed and certitude that still amazed him. She had not even been a stranger. He had seen her briefly years ago when she was barely a teenager. Chola Martinez was just one more plaything of whatever gang banger controlled her neighborhood that week. She had barely registered on his consciousness, mentally dismissed as the type of female who provided a little hourly amusement before being completely forgotten. But when she called him about joining some kind of a crew she was putting together for a unnamed Jefe, he had detected a note of confident maturity in her voice. The tone did not fit with the barely recalled picture his mind had of her. So rather than just reject her request out of hand – Emilio Garza did not join anyone's organization – he agreed to meet her. Call it an example of catlike curiosity.

The woman waiting in the bar on Sunset Boulevard bore only the most superficial resemblance to the Chola he remembered. It was not just that she was older, a little past 20 now but that there was a sophistication, a confidence, a fearlessness about her that intrigued him. Most people meeting him, even the toughest types looking to employ his special talents tended toward nervousness. His lethal reputation always preceded him. Chola however had not shown the slightest sign of trepidation. She had calmly laid out her proposition then casually sipped her drink while he considered her offer.

She was crazy, of course. She wanted to put together a gathering of top street talent that no one could possibly afford, all to work for this mysterious John Connor and his girlfriend Cameron. It was completely insane. He agreed immediately. If he had said no she would have walked away and he might not have seen her again. Abruptly that possibility had become unacceptable. Their real relationship began the night he helped her evade the FBI's surveillance of her house. He had driven her to the new apartment, carried in her luggage was turning to leave when he felt her hand on his arm. Her eyes were as dark as his but glowed with an animating force that reached out to seize him.

"Thank you Emilio." Her voice dropped into a lower register. She put her palms on his cheeks and kissed him. To Emilio women had always been an interchangeable commodity to be purchased when needed and discarded after use. If she was offering a bonus it might be worth an hour of his time. Except he did not think of it that way, even for a second. The touch,the taste of her lips changed his world in the beat of a heart. Light suddenly illuminated a universe that had been covered in darkness. Somehow they made it to the bedroom although Emilio wasn't sure he could recall how. Clothes flew in every direction before they rolled into each other's arms and onto the bed. He hadn't even bothered to hang up his jacket – a first for Emilio Garza.

He had always thought of sex as a raw animalistic indulgence, a physical pleasure to be enjoyed and then mentally put aside until the next time. That night with her he experienced that pleasure but so much more. For the first time in his life he was actually making love – a sensation that he did not want to end.

He awoke the next morning to find her lying beside him, looking at him intently. Before he could speak she leaned over to kiss him. "If you need to go now it will be all right." She was telling him that she was making no demand, expecting no commitment. He was free to leave her just as he would walk away from any other one night companion. In response he slid out of the bed, gathered up his trousers from the floor without even noticing the wrinkles and smiled at her." How do you like your eggs?" He asked. Her smile broadened as she pushed her long black hair away from her face." Soft-boiled" she answered." So do I" he replied.

He did leave her, for an hour and a half, long enough to go back to his apartment and pack a bag. When he returned he did not say he was moving in. He had already seen the recognition and the approval in her expression. When she discovered she was pregnant she told him immediately, not to demand anything from him or to seek to bind him to any responsibility. She just wanted him to know. She wanted him to understand that he could go if he wished. He had no desire to go or to live without her, ever.

His life, however, had not prepared him for choosing the correct path now. What did a killer do when the woman he loved was having his child?

John Connor, the ghost warrior they all called Jefe now had given him the simple answer. "Marry her, if she loves you, Marry her." Emilio Garza who would never acknowledged anyone's authority took the advice of his new leader. He married her.

Chola put down the hairbrush and stood up. They had divided the expensive silk pajamas with Emilio wearing the bottoms while she wore the top. When she turned to face him the first three buttons have been carefully loosened while her now gleaming hair hung strategically down to simulate a false modesty. Somewhat self-consciously she folded her arms across her lower body. She thought she looked fat because she had not yet lost all the pregnancy weight. He disagreed. She would always be beautiful to him.

He was about to take her into an embrace when a low tinkling of the cell phone resting on the dressing table claimed her attention. The call would be for her. That phone was used solely for organization business and Chola was the Jefe’s representative in all such matters. "Yes. Are you sure? When was the last time?" Chola’s voice, so tender loving when she spoke to him, so quietly maternal which she sang to Matteo, was brusquely certain. "We need to get everyone here tomorrow 10 o'clock. We need to talk. Something is going on."

Emilio could see the signs of concern in his wife's face as she clicked off the phone." What's wrong Cielita?" He whispered keeping his voice low to avoid waking the baby. Chola shook her head." Joey K is missing. No one has seen him for two days."

Emilio nodded, instantly understanding the reason for his wife's concern. "Just like Hector." Chola nodded. Hector Rios has seemingly walked off the earth over a week ago. The only link between Hector and Joey K was Chola’s organization. As with many in his line of work, Emilio Garza did not trust coincidence. Better to believe in a hidden enemy and be wrong than underestimate a threat. Chola was right to call a meeting but the meeting wasn't until tomorrow. Tonight still belonged to them.

He moved against her, unfastening the remaining buttons on the pajama top. He let his right hand move slowly beneath the fabric so he could caress one of the more obvious rewards a man received when his woman gave birth. From her smile he could see that his touch had vanquished her worries at least for the moment.

"We are going to have to be quiet." Her warm breath against his face accompanied her whisper." I just got Matteo to sleep." Emilio smiled as he gently eased her out of the pajama top. "I will try if you will." They did try but not always successfully. Luckily their son was a sound sleeper.

James Ellison was nervous. Tarrisa Dyson found that quite surprising. James and Miles were dissimilar in so many ways. Her late husband had been brilliant, scholarly and insightful with a charmingly disorganized nature. Miles had always regarded the world through a prism of bemused wonder. Even in his most serious moments he appeared to be searching for his next joke. To a man of his genius the universe was his private erector set he could play with every day.

Watching her dinner companion fumble with his uncooperative napkin, she knew that James did not possess Miles’s incredible intellect. James had a gravity, a sense of duty, of unshakable purpose that Miles had never exhibited. James was not a man who joked easily. He found life too demanding, too serious for casual levity. When James took on a responsibility he carried it without hesitation, without complaint and put it down only when it was fully discharged.

Yes, Tarissa thought, Miles and James were different in so many ways but they shared one common trait. Both possessed a steely self-confidence. During his life Miles confronted every challenge with the calm certainty that he would think of a way to overcome it. James relied on a different source of strength. From the first night she had met him, she sensed his willingness to face any threat without fear. He was confident, not that he would always succeed, but that he would never recoil from a challenge. Tonight however James had lost that aura of poised assurance. He spilled his wine on the expensive restaurant tablecloth, dropped his silverware twice and seemed unable to follow the train of his own conversation. One moment he looked at her as if straining to form a sentence and then in the next second he turned his head away as if afraid to meet her gaze. At that moment Tarissa realized why he was nervous. It was because of her. That was even more surprising.

She and James were not lovesick teenagers. They were both in their 40s. She had a grown son hiding somewhere out there in the secret recesses of the world. The thought of Danny caused a momentary sense of profound sadness to sweep through her. It had after all been James's promise to look for Danny that first attracted her to him. The early acquaintance had grown rapidly into a friendship and then into something deeper as two injured souls felt a connection.

James began to come by regularly, usually in the late evening ,to check on the Zeira Corporation security detail he had assigned her. It had not been long until a quick hello became a cup of tea and a late-night conversation. Once she made the decision it took her three tries to get him into her bed. Breaking through that stern façade of James Ellison's rectitude had been hard work. But well worth the effort.

The first night she had actually experienced a quick spasm of guilt. Miles had been her high school sweetheart, the only man in her life and she had loved him deeply. Briefly she entertained the thought that she was being unfaithful, disloyal to his memory and then she banished that idea completely and forever. Miles had been gone for more than a decade. She wanted to live again, to love again and to be loved. As she curled his body against his she knew the James Ellison was what she wanted.

Building the relationship from that point had still required effort on her part. Being James, he seemed to think that he had taken unfair advantage of her. Tarissa had literally laughed that misconception away. Gradually he understood that it had not been a single instance of two lonely people seeking comfort but the beginning of something much deeper, something more permanent. Once he understood that, it became easier for her to persuade him to spend most of his nights at her house. They didn't go out often. He worked so hard, so many long hours that she preferred to let him relax over a quiet meal she had prepared. Sitting closely beside him on the couch in front of the television had become one of the high points of her day even when he dozed off with his head on her shoulder.

Tonight was different. He had asked her out to dinner. Inwardly, Tarissa had laughed. They were practically living together and he asked her for a date like an uncertain adolescent. Throughout their meal he repeatedly seemed to be on the verge of some serious discussion before fleeing back into disjointed small talk. She waited patiently until the dessert and coffee before she concluded that enough was enough. As was usually the case, the woman was going to have to extract the man from his own trap.

She reached across the table taking both of his hands in hers almost forcing him to look directly at her. "All right James. There is something you want to tell me and we are not leaving here until you do it."

Ellison took an audibly deep breath before speaking. "Tarissa, you are a fantastic woman and I hope you know how much I care about you, how important you have become to me but it is just..."

Oh my God Tarissa thought, I think I know where this is going.

"I know that I am no prize. I spend too much time at work. I don't always listen to people the way I should. There is no reason for you to..." Okay, get to the point James, she thought. Neither of us is getting any younger.

"James Ellison, are you trying to say you want to make an honest woman out of me?"

Ellison stopped in mid-word and stared at her. It was difficult to think what stunned him more, the fact that she knew what he was trying so clumsily to say or the lovingly encouraging smile on her face when she teased him. He reached into his pocket to withdraw a small blue box. Snapping it open he revealed the diamond covered ring. "Tarissa, I love you. Will you be my wife?"

Tarissa slowly and deliberately allowed the smile the fade from her face. In its place she spun together an expression of pensive uncertainty. She folded both her hands into a prayerful shape and touched her chin." Hmmm, James that isn’t the ring you gave your ex-wife is it?"

James Ellison smiled slowly shaking his head. He knew now when he was being teased. "No Tarissa I bought this ring for you, only for you." Now her face blossomed like an African orchid opening at dawn, her smile was incandescent. "Good", she said as she took the box, deftly removed the ring and slipped it onto her finger. "Because I intend to wear it for the rest of my life."

Ellison smile matched hers in intensity. "May I take that as a yes?" Tarissa rose to her feet placed her hands on the table and leaned forward toward him. He stood to meet her. In the seconds before their lips touched she whispered, "Yes James, you may take that as a yes."

With his well-developed – some might say overdeveloped – sense of dignity James Ellison had never approved of or been comfortable with public displays of affection. But as he kissed this woman, Ellison understood that all principles, all codes of personal conduct were subject to exception. As he was about to pull reluctantly away Tarissa whispered one last comment" It certainly took you long enough." Ellison laughed and knocked over his coffee cup. Across the room the young waiter wearily shook his head as he looked for a towel to mop up the black gentleman's latest mess. In the interests of a good tip he would make no comment concerning the consequences of clumsiness but he could not restrain the thought, God they were old somewhere between 40 and 100. He didn’t think people that age, that ancient even remembered how to kiss.

The multiple owners of Leonora's, none of whom were named Leonora, had chosen the building on Castle Street largely because it was in a commercial district with no other restaurants in the area. The absence of competition gave the establishment a brisk lunch trade from the executives of the surrounding office buildings while the largely empty streets in the evenings offered patrons an alternative to the overpriced valet parking service. The owners had not necessarily intended that. Nor was it important to them that large numbers of darkened entrance ways offered convenient vantage points for observers who did not wish to be observed. Caleb Brontë fit within that category.

Following Ellison had been comparatively easy for one with his cyborg enhanced vision. Trailing at a distance that would have been impossible for a biological being he had effortlessly determined Ellison's destination. He had also verified that Ellison had no supporting assistance, no “back up" as the humans called it. Brontë had noted that when Ellison traveled with the woman Tarissa Dyson he tended not to have other Zeira Corporation security personnel in the area. A foolish human attachment to privacy made him vulnerable.

As always Brontë's patience had been boundless. Waiting in the deserted entrance to a darkened office building he watched the restaurant door waiting for Ellison and his companion to emerge.He heard their laughter even before the door opened. Ellison and the Dyson female were obviously enjoying each other's company. She was holding tight to his arm, resting her head against him as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. From the nature of the endearments Brontë assumed that they were planning to have sexual relations. Humans who exhibited such obvious signs of affection and spoke of those matters as Ellison had just done tended to be anticipating an enhanced physical relationship.

Ellison handed a parking slip to the valet who hurried off in the direction of the restaurant parking lot. For the moment James and Tarissa Dyson stood openly visible in the lights around the door to Leonora’s. Brontë did not have a human projectile weapon. He believed that such trivial devices were unnecessary for one of his prowess. With his speed he could cover the distance to where they were standing in less than 4 seconds, no more than three more seconds would be needed to break Ellison's neck, another two or three to dispose of the woman. He could do it and be back in the dark corners of the street before anyone even grasped what it happened.

The Leader had cautioned him about displaying his cyborg abilities in a way that might attract human media attention. The Rankins had foolishly allowed public notice of their new cyborg prototypes. They even lost the remains of one to the human authorities. The Leader had only cautioned him, he had not been forbidden to employ his talents. Here was the head of Zeira Corporation’s security – the most formidable enemy he had been able to identify and he was incredibly vulnerable. Brontë weighed the risks of launching a savagely lethal attack.

Before he could reach his conclusion the sound of raised voices coming down the street caused him to move further back into the shadows. From the volume and the language being used it seemed that these humans were not in an affectionate mood.

"But Chicita, amor mia, let me explain." The pleading voice belonged to a young male. He was still a boy but well on his way to manhood. The gangling appearance of his arms and legs suggested a recent growth spurt. His voice moved up and down in range as if he were not fully accustomed to this new deeper register.

"Don't you Chicita me you dirty two timing sleaze!" The girl was directly in front of Brontë and he judged her to be somewhere between 17 and 18. Long blonde, probably chemically enhanced blonde, hair, pretty by human standards although a little garish in makeup and jewelry for one of her age. From the dimensions of her upper body it appeared that she had already had her growth spurt.

"But…" He got no further." I was warned about you Ceasar Delgado. Heather, Shawna, Michele and Courtney all told me you couldn't be trusted." For a moment she seemed to be caught between tears and anger. Anger won. "I thought I was different. I thought you loved me."

The boy edged up close to her. He was tall and obviously would get taller still. Not conventionally handsome, his Hispanic appearance, dark eyes, shortcut black hair gave him a sensitive “bad boy" aura that young women often found enticing. He had obviously enticed Dustina Clements but his spell was evidently fading fast. "I do love you." Brontë's infiltrator humor program snapped into place. The boy’s protestation didn't sound even vaguely credible. The girl apparently agreed. She stamped her foot and snarled at him. "Bull Shit! You just wanted to get into my pants. And I let you, you son of a bitch!"

As the little drama or comedy depending upon your point of view played out almost directly in front of him, Brontë saw the valet return with Ellison’s car. His chance was gone for now. There were far too many witnesses for his plan to work but there would be other opportunities.

The girl spun around stomping her feet with a deliberately emphatic tread down the street. "I never want to see or talk to you again."

"But Dustina." He sounded a note of injured pleading." It's your car. If you leave me here how will I get home?" One last retort came firing back at young Delgado. "That… Is… Your… Problem!"

The boy stood watching her leave before he sat down on the edge of the curb. Reaching into his shirt pocket he extracted a cell phone and pushed his speed dial button. "Hola, Antonio. Look I need a ride. Can you come pick me up?" There was a long pause before he spoke again." Yeah, I know, but she dumped me. I don't know, I think she got pissed because she saw me talking to Sandy." Longer pause this time." Yeah that Sandy, but we were just talking. That's not funny Antonio. Anyway I am at the corner of Castle and Faraday. Come pick me up, okay?"

Ceasar Delgado got to his feet but before he could walk away his cell phone rang. "This is Ceasar. Hey Monique, how you doing baby? No no nothing special. Your parents aren't home? You must be really lonely. How about I come and visit? No no Chicita, just visit. I'll be there in less than an hour."

Brontë heard the boy begin to whistle- a jaunty tune that picked up in enthusiasm as he walked away from his latest romantic drama. Some humans clearly rebounded from emotional distress faster than others. He waited until the tune had faded completely away before he left his covert observation post. Biological life was an undeniable impediment to the leader's plans. It would have to be addressed. Brontë had to acknowledge, however, that observing the varieties of human nature could be interesting.

From the lavender fields of Provence to the cold cement of Los Angeles the bright sun will set, the sable cloak of night will descend and the truly fortunate will slumber in the arms of those they love, of those that love them. The world promises nothing. Love and justice are not always companions. For those blessed by it love grants a solace and lifts away life’s burdens. So this shall be until time ends.


End file.
